


The Fires of Magic: Book One

by Raolin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Humor, Just so much snarkiness, Magical training before Hogwarts, Multi, My First Fanfic, Powerful Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 15:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 151,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raolin/pseuds/Raolin
Summary: The curse Voldemort cast on baby Harry had far-reaching effects on Harry’s magic. Harry must now explore those effects, and magic itself, all while battling killer teachers, giant beasts, and more in a school that really needs a safety board. Luckily for Harry, he doesn’t have to do this all alone. Harry/multi. Contains AU, OCs, and more. Book One starts before and runs through Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.





	1. Well, that didn’t go according to plan

A cold wind blew through a tiny village in the West Country of England, rustling through leaves that lay heavy on the ground before dashing itself against the legs of a man that definitely did not belong in such a quaint little hamlet, or, indeed, in any place where happiness and warmth made its home. The midnight robes he wore were sent fluttering in the icy breeze, but they were not what marked him as an outsider. In fact, just for this night, his attire seemed right at home, as all around this peaceful little town, men and children alike roamed about dressed as goblins and devils and monsters in celebration of Halloween. The children shrieked with glee and clutched bags of sweets as they darted to and fro, all while their parents watched on with happiness and pride and, in some cases, patient humor as they wore ridiculous costumes at their children’s insistence.

 

One might think it was the lack of a child by his side that so marked him as an outsider, or perhaps the absence of any friend or spouse at his elbow to gossip with, as was the case for so many others around him. Or perhaps it was his stride that so set him apart, moving with a blend of undeniable purpose and almost serpentine grace while everyone else joyfully gamboled and stumbled about without a care, drunk on the joy of the holiday.

 

Whatever it was that so marked this man in the eyes of any who gazed upon him, one thing was absolutely clear: a stranger had come to Godric’s Hollow, and he most certainly did not belong.

 

Of course, not every set of eyes was upon him. Some were too caught up in rustling through bags of sweets or talking with friends or laughing at each other’s costumes. Such was the case for one young boy as he dashed from one house to the next, all the while staring aghast at the box of raisins placed in his bag by the weirdos at the previous home. Truly, some evil in this world is simply beyond comprehension.

 

However, as he was so distraught over this horrendous crime against humanity, he forgot to watch out for that one piece of sidewalk that always stuck up higher than the others between these houses, and so he was sent sprawling to the ground, his bag filled with sweets and one horrible abomination sliding ahead of him to stop at the feet of the robed stranger.

 

The boy bounced to his feet unharmed, too filled with sugar and excitement to give a second thought to his tumble, but as he started to dash forward to pick up his bag of (mostly) precious loot, he drew up short, noticing the man for the first time. It was understandable that this would make him hesitate, as the man had just bent over and slowly picked up the boy’s bag with what looked like an enormous pale spider moonlighting as a hand.

 

Of course, something like that couldn’t keep the boy back for long, but as he ran forward to stand in front of the stranger, he froze once again, this time from looking at the face hidden underneath that black hood.

 

The boy just stood there, unable to move or blink as he stared at the stranger’s face and the stranger stared back at him. But finally, the boy’s face took on an expression that was a curious mix of horror and delight, a combination only a child could manage.

 

“Are you a monster?” the child blurted out excitedly, not sure if he was looking at a mask or a face under that hood.

 

The stranger grinned at the question, which curiously enough made the boy’s mixed expression become far less mixed, before slowly reaching out and placing the bag of sweets in the boy’s shaking arms.

 

“No. I am not.”

 

The man strode past without another word.

 

The stranger chuckled quietly as he reached his destination. He stared up at the unassuming little cottage before gazing up and down the street outside. Few of the revelers were out and about in this part of town, but each one that was seemed simply unable to cast their eyes on the cottage before him. Their eyes flicked from the house on its left to the one on its right as if there was nothing in between them at all, and not a one of them seemed to notice anything odd about this in the least. The stranger grinned.

 

_Perfect._

 

He reached out and delicately unlatched the garden gate, allowing it to creak shut behind him before finally latching, and in the icy stillness, that small metal click sounded almost … _final_. Like a cell door slamming shut.

 

As he strode up the garden path, he found himself thinking back to the little boy’s question. _‘Are you a monster?’_ He felt a laugh bubble up in his throat at the memory. He had often heard that question levied at him, but never with such … _innocence_. Indeed, there was often a _very_ different tone to such questions when he was involved.

 

He lifted his wand to point it at the door in front of him. He felt his magic roil and burn inside him, pleading to be released like a slave under the branding iron. He allowed the faintest whisper of that power to escape, oh so gently reaching into the tiny mass of metal and levers in front of him to unlock the door. The click of the latch, echoing loudly in the cold, silent night, was almost buried under the triumphant scream of his magic reveling in the joy of pleasing its lord.

 

The door swung inwards, bathing him in the warm glow cast by the fireplace in the cottage’s living room, in front of which a small, loving family was gathered to celebrate the holiday in comfort and safety, neither of which they would be finding tonight.

 

The woman holding the infant stood at an angle facing the door, and so she was the first to see the visitor that had come calling. Her skin paled to a sickly white as he reached up and lowered his hood, baring his face to the world. He smiled. “Hello, Lily Potter.”

 

She desperately clutched the child in her arms. “V-Voldemort,” she breathed.

 

The man beside her spun to face the doorway. His jet black hair formed a stark contrast to the paleness of his face as he rapidly reached the same sickly shade as his wife. “Y-y-you!”

 

Voldemort smiled even more deeply. “Hello again, James.”

 

James took an involuntary step back from that gaze before gritting his teeth and drawing his wand. “Lily! Take him and go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”

 

Voldemort chuckled. Now that tone he was more familiar with. He idly watched as the woman darted upstairs, huddled over the child in her arms as if hiding him from view would somehow make him safe.

 

“Hey!” James shouted as his wand flashed with a spell that Voldemort lazily deflected, not even turning to look at his attacker. “Leave them alone and face me, you monster!”

 

 _Ah. There’s that word again. Monster._ Voldemort mused on this as he finally turned to face the Potter scion. _Him, that boy, everyone seems to enjoy calling me that._ His own wand flashed as James Potter screamed. _None of them seem to understand._ He seemed almost bored as he leaned away from a barrage of desperate curses from the bleeding man in front of him before casually flicking his wand and sending that man to the ground, his wand rolling away from his spasming fingers. _Lord Voldemort is far more than some common monster._ He looked down on the trembling man lying at his feet before slowly raising his wand once more. _I am a devil._ A sickly green light burst from his wand, and a final breath passed the lips of the Dark Lord’s latest victim.

 

He gazed dispassionately at the corpse in front of him before turning his gaze to the staircase the woman had ran up. _And it’s time to ascend my throne._

 

As he started up, his thoughts turned to the home he had invaded. No magical pictures, no enchanted items, there was almost no evidence of magic in this house whatsoever. He gently traced his fingers along the banister as an expression of disgust colored his features. How could they stand it? There were no screams of magic being twisted and shackled into a broom. No magic sang its groans and cries as it was forced into any number of shapes and forms needed to power the innumerable enchanted items that were so essential to a proper wizarding home. Were it not for the wands and the wards he could still feel outside, he would think he had wandered into a muggle home.

 

He started across the second landing. How did their skin not crawl from this mundane air? How were their minds not twisted and broken from this silence? But, then again, no-one but him ever seemed to hear magic’s song. They were all lost to silence, even standing in the middle of Diagon Alley. He chuckled to himself as he stood before a closed door, hearing the pulse and cry of magic from the woman’s wand on the other side. _Perhaps that is why they are all so mad._

 

He opened the door, ruthlessly shredding the trap ward the woman had placed on the other side. He could see her face fall as he did, but as he started forward, that expression was replaced with a look of determination and fear as she raised her wand at him.

 

He paused at the sight, and then he laughed outright for the first time. “Lily Potter. You are a talented witch, there’s no denying that, but you know you cannot win against me.” Her wand wavered. “Stand aside, little girl. You can’t stop me. You know that. There’s no reason for you to waste your life trying.” He stepped forward. “Leave, Lily Potter. And live.”

 

A moment stretched out into an eternity as the two stared at each other, one with amusement, and the other with fear and hatred. But then, ever so slowly, Lily lowered her wand. Her face filled with loathing before she softly stepped to the side.

 

Voldemort’s smile deepened. “Smart girl.” Her face flushed with fury as she dropped her eyes to the floor. He stepped languidly past her, watched her body shake and her hand twitch as he drew level with her, heard her rapid breathing draw almost to a halt before he moved on. But as he moved past her, he drew to a stop. He could feel her eyes hard on his back as he slowly raised his hands out at his sides, not even turning to face her.

 

“Well?” he asked quietly. “I’m waiting, smart girl.”

 

Oh, he could practically _taste_ her despair at those words. _Exquisite._ He laughed once more, and at that high, cold sound, Lily struck. An inarticulate cry of rage and desperation tore free of her lips as her wand let loose a brilliant emerald light aimed directly at the Dark Lord’s back.

 

Voldemort felt the magic rise up in the woman, felt it twist its way down her wand, heard its scream as it was let loose. He might as well have cast the curse himself. He spun, moving at an inhuman speed as magic pumped through his veins and flooded his wand. The woman’s curse reached him … and was swatted away.

 

Lily’s face showed absolute shock as the Dark Lord did the impossible and deflected the unblockable curse. She reflexively winced as her curse struck the wall near the ceiling, leaving a crater, but other than that, she did not move. She couldn’t. She had failed. She felt tears fill her eyes.

 

Voldemort straightened casually, as if he hadn’t a fear in the world. “Smart girl … and foolish. I told you that you couldn’t stop me.” He shook his head in mocking sadness. “You should have just stepped aside and given me your son.”

 

Lily’s eyes flashed at that. And all at once, all the despair left her face, leaving only rage. “I’ll die first!” she screamed.

 

“Yes,” Voldemort said simply.

 

She raised her wand once more, a curse on her lips … and she was struck by sickly green light.

 

Voldemort shook his head as he watched the fierce woman fall. As with the man, he stood and gazed at her for a moment. Her pale complexion suited her in death, just as her blood-red hair suited her in life. With a snort, he noticed that her head was turned towards the crib on the far side of the room, and her left hand was extended as if reaching out to the child within it, even from beyond the veil of death. He sighed. He would never understand these people. He offered her a chance at life, and she just threw it away, knowing full well that nothing she did could stop him. Although, he had to admit, that little plan of hers was the closest anyone had ever come. Had he been anything less than he was, it would have even succeeded.

 

He heard a rustle at the far end of the room, and he finally turned his attention to the entire reason for his visit. In the crib stood a child, little more than a year old, with a mess of black hair and eyes as vividly green as the woman’s. Those eyes were staring at the dead woman on the floor, but they rose as Voldemort came to stand before him.

 

“So … you’re the one that’s supposed to have the power to destroy me?” Voldemort raised one non-existent eyebrow before his face twisted into dissatisfaction. “Strange. You look rather like a human child, not some angel of death.”

 

The boy blinked his large, tear-filled eyes. “Bad man.”

 

Voldemort raised both eyebrows at that before giving another high, cold laugh.

 

He raised his wand as his eyes glowed an unearthly red, shifting his vision from the mundane to the arcane. Colors seemed muted, but certain things glowed brightly. The woman’s wand, for instance, glowed the bright emeraldgreen of summer grass from the floor behind him, while his own lit up in the pale green shade of his beloved curse. With hisSight, he looked beyond the boy, seeing past his diminutive exterior to the crackling core of his magic. He blinked at what he saw.

 

“Well … maybe you might actually have proven a challenge to me one day.” He snorted. “Maybe.”

 

He built up the magic inside himself, watched it twist and jerk as it flowed from his core down his arm and filled his bone-handled wand. The tip began to give of a pale green glow, and with his Sight, he took careful aim at the boy’s glowing magic core. Unnecessary, perhaps, but apotheosis called for a certain flair.

 

And so, with his wand leveled at the boy’s heart, he spoke his final words as a mortal.

 

“ _Avada Kedavra.”_

 

Pale green light launched from his wand and struck the boy in the chest, reaching deep within to strike at his very core of magic, and presumably reaching even further to sever the boy’s very soul, though he liked to believe that they were one and the same. He watched that core fracture like a solid glass orb as his curse struck, and with a final pulse of light, the boy fell back in his crib, dead.

 

Voldemort’s eyes ceased glowing as he lowered his wand. He breathed deeply, tasting the air for the first time as an immortal. As he gazed on the tiny, broken form of his supposed nemesis, he found himself thinking back to his past, all the way back to that filthy orphanage and its fanatic harridan of a caretaker. What was that one linefrom that damnable book she loved so much … He grinned.

 

“And behold, I am alive for evermore.”

 

With that, he turned his back on the fallen child and began to leave, already turning his mind towards his final ritual to seal his immortality. The boy’s murder would perform nicely as its catalyst. But as he passed the woman’s body, he paused. Just for a moment, he thought he heard something, something just on the edge of hearing. _Is that … no, it couldn’t be._ But … it almost sounded like … song.

 

He spun back towards the crib as he heard a faint rustle. His eyes bulged. It couldn’t be. He stared at the unmoving form of the child in the crib until his eyes burned, but finally, he gave a rueful chuckle at his jumpiness and started to straighten. However, his amusement lasted only a moment. Right before his eyes, the child convulsed before dragging in a desperate, agonizing breath.

 

Voldemort dropped his wand in shock at the sight. _It’s … it’s not possible._ He struck the boy dead with the killing curse. He watched the light go out of his eyes! But there he was, coughing and pulling in one heaving, painful breath after another. Numbly, Voldemort started back towards the crib, not even collecting his wand in his shock, but before he could take a second step, the child began screaming.

 

The boy howled in utter agony, and Voldemort dropped to his knees and howled right alongside him, as far more than just the boy’s lungs were screaming. Voldemort was racked with unbearable pain as the boy’s magic screamed along with him, striking Voldemort more viscerally than any spell or mere sound ever could. He could not longer place himself, no longer remember where he was or what he was doing. That indescribable shriek pierced his mind and shook him like a dog shaking a rat. Desperately, no longer able to consciously direct his actions, he activated his Sight and looked beyond the boy. What he saw horrified him.

 

The boy’s core was shattered, resembling a crystal ball that had been blown into pieces from the inside out, but _it wasn’t dead!_ The pieces weren’t scattered and dissolving. No. They were hovering in place beside each other, maintaining the sphere’s shape. The light of what he was seeing burned him, blinded him just like the scream was deafening him, and yet he couldn’t look away. He watched as the edges of those crystalline pieces liquefied, flowing towards each other to fill the gaps left by his attack. He could _feel_ magic’s agony as it happened, and he distantly registered the boy convulsing in a seizure from the pain even as he continued his unending howl.

 

The boy’s core changed. It now resembled some glowing primeval planet with a crust riddled with brilliant, lava-filled cracks. Those fluid cracks flared with light once more, reminding him of the agony he was under, but he no longer cared. He no longer heard the scream of the boy or his magic. He no longer felt his own throat as it bled from the strain of his continued shrieking. He no longer even registered his own magic as it thrashed and cried out from this torture. All he felt was the song. The song that he had so distantly heard before the boy drew that first breath. The song that reached his broken, blackened soul and drew agony from it that he didn’t even know was possible. The song that rose in broken cadence as the boy’s tortured core grew brighter and brighter.

 

The song that he had heard once before.

 

The song reached a crescendo as an indescribably bright wave of light burst free of the boy’s core. Distantly, as if in slow motion, he watched the light demolish the wall behind the crib and the ceiling above him. By the time it reached Voldemort himself, he couldn’t even feel his own body anymore. He couldn’t even remember that he had one. He felt no loss as the light vaporized his physical form. He felt only the horrifying agony of his broken soul being twisted and mutilated even further as it was wrenched free of his former body. He felt what was left of his soul being pulled taught as it was caught between an unstoppable force trying to drive it out of this world and an immovable object in the form of one of his earthly tethers. Like a meat hook driven into his flesh, he felt that tether catch and hold him as his very soul wailed in agony. For a moment, for one brief, indescribable moment, he wished that tether would fail and just let him go. Anything would be better than this. But just when he felt that this would be his fate for all eternity, the luminous wave passed on, barely an instant after first catching him, and suddenly his soul was moving, drawn inexorably towards that same tether.

 

He longed for the blackness of unconsciousness to take hold of him to spare him the memory of the torture he had just endured, but he was granted no such mercy. This new form could not sleep, could not rest. It could only exist. And so he did. His mind and soul shuddered and wailed in agony from that horrible memory, but he _lived._ And so he retreated, allowing his tether to draw what was left of him to a dark, hidden place in one of the forgotten corners of the world. He would recover. He would rise again. And he would have _vengeance._

 

One day.

 

But for now, back in the ruined cottage, the infant, granted the mercy that Voldemort was so denied, slept, unaware of what happened to the bad man, unaware that strangers would be arriving soon to stare aghast at the wreckage before looking in shock at the shredded black robes of the intruder or the infant sleeping quietly nearby. He was unaware of how many eyes would be turned to this scene, or of the legend that would grow from it. He was unaware of the scar shaped like an inverted triangle now branded on his chest, or of the twinkling blue eyes that would soon study it before gazing on the fallen form of his mother nearby. He was blissfully ignorant of how much his life would be shaped by that simple moment, or that he would soon be whisked off to a place where the abnormal was hated and the name Potter despised. The boy slept on, knowing nothing of the fate that lay in store for him, or that his story was only just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :) I'd like to point out a few things about this story before we really get started. First, this is an AU story, as I'm sure you've noticed by now. There will be some changes to things like character ages, personalities, and even genders for a few, and some events will play out differently than in canon (other than simply as a result of the main character's actions, I mean). There will also be some OCs, but I don't plan on them being the center-point for the story, which will primarily (although not exclusively) revolve around Harry's time at Hogwarts, starting with first year and the story of the Philosopher's Stone.


	2. Couldn’t we have just called the Big Brother Program?

**Almost six years later**

Nestled deep within a mountain range, far, far away from that ruined cottage, rested a monastery. That alone was not too remarkable. There were any number of monasteries in the world, and more than a few had been built in remote locations. However, this one was rather unique in a number of ways. For one thing, most people would find it difficult to explain how such a large and ancient building could have been built so very high up on the side of a mountain, especially in the days before powered cranes and drills and other such tools. Others would have been left scratching their head at the lack of any discernible path leading from the monastery down the mountain, and those who thought about it would have been left wondering how supplies like food and water could even reach the people living there. Of course, even more remarkable was just how few people would ever be capable of asking such questions in the first place. You see, this monastery was far more than mundane stone. It was a place steeped deeply in magic, and there were precious few, magical or otherwise, who would ever be capable of even perceiving this ancient stronghold.

  


Well, not unless invited, of course.

  


And that is where our story takes us, as deep within the heart of that monastery, thirteen disparate people were gathered around an elegant yet complex series of crimson glowing lines and symbols traced upon the ground. Those who knew of such things would recognize this as a runic circle, though it would take a true master of the art to tell much more than that given its incredible level of complexity. However, even a non-magical would be able to feel the power emanating from it, as the energy it emitted seemed to ever so faintly warp the air as it filled the lungs of those gathered around it with the faintest taste of ozone and metal.

  


Of those individuals gathered around the circle, only one wore robes colored a deep burgundy, though he tugged on them from time to time as if they didn’t quite fit. Of course, it would be no surprise if they didn’t, since the man was just shy of six and a half feet tall and laden with muscle. However, his intimidating stature was belied by the fact that he was currently fidgeting like a crumb-covered child being asked where the plate of cookies had disappeared to. You see, he was the focus of this entire ceremony, which would soon set him on the next step of his journey as a member of this monastery.

  


“I am completely unprepared for this!”

  


And he, of course, was utterly thrilled for the opportunity.

  


“It’ll be fine, Far–”

  


“No it will not be fine, Asa! I’m not ready! I’m nowhere even near ready!”

  


“Hmph,” snorted a short, severe-looking Japanese man nearby. “The world must be ending. For once, I actually agree with Master Faraji on something.”

  


“Don’t even start with me, Takeshi! I am in no mood right now!”

  


A nearby woman sighed. “If we could all please regain our decorum? This is an ancient and powerful ceremony, after all. Surely it deserves to be treated with respect and dignity.”

  


Faraji blew a raspberry at her, indicating his own thoughts on the matter. Not to mention a truly inspiring level of maturity. The afore-named Takeshi rolled his eyes in disgust at the display.

  


“ _Peace.”_

  


Everyone stilled at that single word from the man at the far end of the circle. Dressed in robes that glimmered a pure, snow white, he certainly drew attention in a room where almost everyone else wore robes of shimmering black. However, one look at this man would make it clear that he could command a room no matter his attire, and likely without even needing to say a single word.

  


His short hair was as pure white as his robes, and it was in stark contrast to his surprisingly young-looking face. However, his almond-shaped eyes were what truly drew attention. Set within that youthful face, his dark, almost black eyes were lined with crow’s feet, truly reflecting the age and wisdom those eyes held within. Those eyes typically showed good humor and endless patience, but even like that, they were still enough to catch and hold anyone caught in their gaze better than any glaring parent could catch a guilty child, which is exactly what people tended to feel like in his presence.

  


And all of that was nothing compared to when he was actually angry.

  


Luckily for all those present, those ancient eyes still showed their patient humor at the moment, but it was still enough to quiet everyone as he began to speak. “Master Faraji.” Master Faraji stiffened to attention. “You have been called to undergo your next trial as a master of this monastery. Do you have something you would like to say?”

  


“Uh, yeah, you could say that,” Faraji remarked dryly.

  


“Then please, do so,” the white-robed man replied in his usual smooth, dulcet tone.

  


“Well,” Faraji began nervously, “I’m not ready. I mean, really not ready! I’ve only been a master for a week. One week! I was supposed to have months. Years, even! I’ve never even heard of a master undergoing the ritual this early! I didn’t even know that could happen! There’s no way I can do this! I mean, I still have my apprentice robes for crying out loud! How on earth am I supposed to–”

  


“PEACE, Master Faraji!”

  


Faraji blinked at realizing that he had been ranting and that the high grandmaster had been trying repeatedly to get his attention. He blushed, though no one could tell with his dark skin.

  


The youthful old man smiled, still maintaining his good humor. “You underestimate yourself, Master Faraji.” Takeshi snorted at that, though he was ignored. “We rarely find ourselves called at a time of convenience. That is beyond our power. All we can truly do is decide how we answer. That, far more than any robes, is the true mark of a master.”

  


Faraji grumbled under his breath, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. However, he was spared the need to reply as a woman with a Spanish cast to her features spoke up from her position beside the old man. “Master Faraji does have a point, High Grandmaster. It is unheard of for a master to undergo this rite so early. Tradition dictates a wait of at least several months after being raised to the rank of master, so as to allow the master a chance to fully settle into the new role first. Are you sure this is wise?”

  


“You are quite right, Grandmaster Arcelia,” he replied in his usual soothing tone. “Tradition does call for a longer wait. But you forget that we answer to something much greater than man-made traditions. Master Faraji has been called. It is not for us to dismiss that call. We are but leaves in a river. We do not control its ebb and flow. We simply ride its current as best we can.” The woman by his side bowed her head in acceptance while Faraji mumbled under his breath about being sea sick. “And Master Faraji,” he continued, turning towards the red-robed man, who by now looked thoroughly unhappy, as he was starting to realize that this trial would still be happening. “Have faith in yourself. You were named a master of this monastery. Whether a week or a decade ago makes no difference.”

  


Faraji grumbled again, but did not respond. However, the high grandmaster apparently did not expect a response, as he turned to address the rest of the grandmasters present. “Brothers, sisters, we are gathered here today because one of our number has been called to submit himself to the Trial of the Master.”

  


“Woohoo,” Faraji mumbled quietly under his breath.

  


“Does anyone among us dispute his right to undertake this trial?” the old man continued. Grandmaster Takeshi looked like he was biting into a lemon, but neither he nor anyone else said a word. “Very well then. Approach, Master Faraji.”

  


Faraji took easily three times longer than necessary to walk around the circle to the high grandmaster, but eventually, he stood before the old man. And above him, given the old man’s extreme shortness and his own height.

  


The old man pierced Faraji with his ancient eyes. “Do you stand ready to answer this call?”

  


Faraji swallowed his suddenly dry throat. “Uh, yes. I guess.” Others around the circle shook their heads at his lackluster reply.

  


The high grandmaster chuckled. “Are you prepared to give of yourself to this monastery, and to undergo this trial, knowing full well what this involves?”

  


Faraji sighed and looked pleadingly at the high grandmaster, but the old man’s expression never wavered from its look of quiet expectation. Faraji sighed. “Yes, I am.”

  


“Excellent!” the old man replied with a smile. “Then let us begin. Grandmaster Arcelia, open the portal, please.” The Spanish woman at his side nodded as she raised her arms to the circle with an expression of intense concentration. _“_ _Master Faraji,”_ the old man began again, but this time, he abandoned his tone of patient humor, as his voice instead took on an undeniable tone of power and authority, echoing in the ears of everyone around. _“You came to us lost and broken, adrift on the tides of fate.”_ Beside him, Arcelia’s hands had begun glowing a brilliant orange as the circle before them lit up even more brightly than before.

  


“ _Your flesh was weak, but your spirit strong, and your will unbent. And so we named you Apprentice.”_ The air around them grew heavy and charged like the moment before a lightning strike as the circle grew in power.

  


“ _You were beset by trials, but you remembered your teachings. And so we named you Master.”_ The room filled with the sound of flapping cloth like the wings of enormous birds as everyone’s robes were whipped about by the wind now spinning around the runic circle on the floor between them, which now resembled little more than a rising sun just beginning its ascent over the horizon.

  


“ _The time has come to fill the void you left behind,”_ the high grandmaster continued, his eyes now glowing a brilliant, pure white from the power of the ritual. _“It is time to go forth and seek our new apprentice. Out in the world is one lost and broken, just as once you were. You must now bring them to safe harbor, and offer them a place among us.”_ Beside him, Grandmaster Arcelia, now sweating profusely and with her face twisted with strain, gave a mighty upward heave, and the light flowing from the runes on the floor snapped out of the ground, transforming in an instant from a rising dawn to a noonday sun. Everyone’s eyes strained and burned under the glare of that brilliant light, even with eyelids closed, but only for a moment, as that light swiftly collapsed into itself, finally transforming into a large ring floating in the middle of the runic circle. The wrist-thick edges glowed a bright yet soft, warm reddish gold, while the area inside twisted and spun, shifting through whorls of deep, dark blue and pure, jet black. Grandmaster Arcelia let her arms drop to her sides like they each weighed a hundred pounds as her hands finally stopped glowing. Her face was lined with exhaustion, and yet she smiled with undeniable pride.

  


The high grandmaster smiled as well. “Well done, Grandmaster Arcelia. Well done,” he told her, finally dropping the ethereal tone from his voice. He then turned back to Faraji. “The way is open, Master Faraji,” he stated, gesturing towards the portal. “Magic shall be your guide.”

  


Faraji turned to face the portal, and with an audible gulp, he began walking towards it. With every step, he could feel the air become heavier. The hair on his arms began to rise from the residual charge in the air, and as he continued to step closer, the taste of metal in his mouth grew so strong he could have sworn he was chewing on a piece of iron, until finally, he stood just before the portal.

  


“Okay … okay, I can do this.” He began swinging his arms and bending his knees like he was preparing to jump off a diving board. “Here I go …” He swallowed audibly. “I can handle this …”

  


“Master Faraji?”

  


He turned to face the old man, hoping for some words of inspiration or wisdom. Instead, the old man simply flicked his finger, and with a totally masculine scream, Faraji was sent hurtling headfirst into the portal. Several of the grandmasters assembled raised eyebrows at the display.

  


“He was stalling,” the old man said simply.

  


* * *

  


On the other side of the world, a small boy ran for his life.

  


Branches whipped his face and bushes snagged his feet as if trying to drag him to the ground, but he kept running, too desperate and terrified to give a second thought to the lines of blood joining the beads of sweat in trying to freeze to his skin in the icy air. He didn’t have time. He didn’t have the energy. He just had to keep running.

  


“BOY!”

  


No matter how hard he breathed, he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. He felt light-headed from exhaustion and terror, and he was almost blind from the icy fog of his breath and the inky black Surrey night, but he kept moving, stumbling over tree roots and bouncing off tree trunks. But finally, one of the bushes succeeded in grabbing hold of his over-sized pants and he was sent slamming hard into the ground too quickly for him to even slow his fall with his hands. The desperate heaving breaths suddenly stopped dead as the wind was knocked out of him, and just for a moment, he panicked even further as he suddenly felt like he was suffocating when he was already desperate for air.

  


“BOY! YOU’LL GET BACK HERE IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU!”

  


Suddenly he heard heavy footsteps and the sound of branches being shoved aside by something big.

  


Something coming closer.

  


The boy panicked even further, almost forgetting his desperate need for air in his rush to untangle his legs from the underbrush. His teeth were chattering and his hands bled as he mindlessly ripped and tore at the bush while hearing those footsteps growing closer. And closer. But finally, with one last desperate kick, he was free, and he was up and running again without a second thought, not even noticing that he could breathe again in his panic.

  


“ _BOY!”_

  


It was no good. He was too small. The weeds that he had to fight to get free of, the other could simply flatten, or step over. He couldn’t move fast enough. He couldn’t. He was going to get caught. His lungs hitched in a terrified sob at the thought and his eyes filled with tears, blurring his vision and making his eyes burn even more in the frigid air. _No,_ he thought to himself furiously. _I can’t cry. I need to see. I need to breathe! I can’t let him catch me._ The footsteps drew closer, moving faster than he was. _No no no. I’m not gonna let him catch me._ Tears streamed down his face as he started to move faster. _I won’t._ The icy burning in his lungs felt like it was spreading to his entire body. His bones ached and his skin felt like knives were digging into it from the inside out. _I WON’T!_

  


Suddenly, his next step hit air where he expected to hit ground, and his tenuous balance was simply gone, sending him to the ground once more. But as he started to fall, he knew that this time would be the end. He was too weak, and the footsteps were just too close. He wouldn’t get away. As he fell, the entire world seemed to just fall away too. Even his own body seemed miles away. There was nothing but cold, and the knowledge that it was all over. He closed his eyes.

  


He was forced back into his body when he landed in freezing cold water rather than the rocky ground he expected. He sputtered to the surface, hacking and coughing as he tried to empty the icy water out of his still heaving lungs. He realized the water he was in was from a creek no deeper than his waist. He stood up, looking around in confusion as he brushed his sopping black hair out of his eyes. Those eyes began darting around in a panic as he realized he had lost track of his pursuer. He crouched down in the frigid water to his chin to try and stay out of sight, sure that any moment now, a massive hand would reach out from the shadows and grab him in a crushing grip, but as he huddled there in the flowing water like a rabbit hiding in its den with a wolf digging its way in, he realized that he couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore, or those massive, beast-like breaths. There was only him, and his smaller, more desperate heaving. For a moment, he wondered if maybe his pursuer was trying to be sneaky, but he shook his head at the thought. Sneaky wasn’t a word that described Uncle Vernon.

  


The water was so cold that it caused a sharp ache all over his body from the neck down, and so finally, he trudged over to the far bank of the little creek. The icy wind cut through him like a knife as he stepped out of the water and squished over towards the trees on the other side. His over-sized clothes felt like a lead suit from the weight of all the water, and frigid water sloshed around around his socks in his ratty trainers.

  


He sat with a squish with his back to a tree facing the creek, and as he huddled there shivering, he tried to figure out what had happened. After all, there was no creek anywhere near where he had been running. He’d been in those trees before. And what happened to Uncle Vernon? One minute, he could practically feel that puce-colored hand snatching and clawing at the nape of his neck, and the next minute, he was nowhere to be found. If he had been near here, he would have been screaming and breaking branches in a fury, but other than the quiet babbling of the water and his own chattering teeth, there wasn’t a sound.

  


He quickly realized that even if he had somehow lost Uncle Vernon, he was still in trouble. His icy wet clothes felt almost painful they were so cold, and the freezing wind was only making things worse. He needed to get warm. The problem was, he had no way to make a fire, and he had no dry clothes to change into. He sat huddled in a ball with his knees against his chest and his hands tucked under his arms, but there was no heat for them to hold in. He hung his head. He muscles ached from shivering so much on top of his pell-mell run, and his jaw was clenched so tightly he was worried he would break a tooth, but none of it mattered. He felt even more water start running down his cheeks, but he didn’t care. About any of it. _I got away from Vernon only to die out here._ He had long since caught his breath, but he found his lungs heaving and catching again anyway. _It’s not fair._ His soaking wet skin burned from the cold of the wind, and his lungs felt like ice as he took in one sobbing, hiccuping breath after another. _I didn’t mean to be so weak._ The icy burning spread deep into his flesh, reaching all the way through his muscles down to his very bones, but he hardly noticed. _I’m sorry._ He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for, or who he was apologizing to. The parents he never knew? Himself? He couldn’t tell. The burning ran even deeper somehow, but he didn’t question it. It didn’t matter. It was over.

  


That feeling changed as the burning became a searing pain that reached something deep inside him, something _beyond_ him, and he cried out as he fell to his side clutching his chest. _So this is what dying feels like._ The oddly-calm thought felt as distant as the pain did a minute ago, but now that pain blocked out everything. He didn’t even feel the wind or his soaking wet clothes anymore, only the stabbing pain from that one strange place deep inside him. He tried pressing on his chest with his hands, but it didn’t help. He couldn’t reach the pain. It just kept building. He started thrashing on the ground, but he almost didn’t notice. He just kept grabbing his chest to try and stop the pain, but it wouldn’t stop, until finally, without thinking about what he was doing, he reached out to the pain with something other than his hands.

  


He felt like he was just shy of reaching whatever was hurting when he struck something, like a smooth pane of glass between him and the pain. The glass vibrated and grew hot as something on the other side tried to break through, and he found himself mindlessly pounding on the glass, barely even aware of anything other than the inexplicable, almost primal need to reach whatever was on the other side of that wall. With whatever he was using to touch the glass, he moved along the surface of the barrier, trying to find a weak spot. As he did, he felt whatever was on the other side moving to match him, as if desperate to reach him. He could barely even remember his body anymore as it lay shivering on the ground on the bank of that creek. All that mattered was breaking through that barrier, though he would have found it impossible to explain why. Such questions just didn’t seem to matter.

  


All of a sudden, he felt something on the surface of that barrier. Something like cracks. Feverishly, he felt the fingers of this new odd limb dance across those cracks, trying to find the best point to strike while whatever was on the other side darted back and forth like a puppy trapped under ice in a half-frozen river. He followed those cracks to a hole, a place where part of this weakened section of the barrier had already collapsed. He tried to reach through, but the hole was too small. He felt the force on the other side whine and strain at the hole too as it tried to reach him, but whatever it was, it was simply too big to fit. With his ghostly limb, he latched on to the edge of the opening and _pulled_. He strained and heaved with all his strength as the force on the other side joined him, pushing on that same part of the barrier from the other side.

  


It wasn’t enough. The barrier wasn’t budging. Somehow, he redoubled his efforts, straining even harder at the opening. Distantly, he heard a faint crack. The force on the other side seemed frantic now, throwing itself at the barrier again and again as if driven half mad at the prospect of freedom. He strained harder and harder at the barrier as he distantly noticed his body twitching on the ground back in the real world. With muted concern, he realized that his time was running out. His body was dying from the cold. With a wordless shout, he gathered all of his strength and heaved on the barrier one more time.

  


**CRACK**

  


A large chunk of the barrier broke free, doubling the size of the opening. Without a moment’s pause, he threw himself at the opening and finally reached through. He touched the strange force on the other side.

  


His body flooded with heat as if he had just opened the hatch of a furnace. He vaguely noticed his body sob with relief as warmth soaked into every vein and pore, sinking into his body more thoroughly than if he was dropped into a hot bath. However, there was a reason he was only distantly noticing this.

  


He wasn’t done.

  


He could reach the force on the other side of the barrier. In fact, he couldn’t even tell where that strange limb he had used ended and that force began, they were so tightly bound together. But the rest of the barrier was still there. That made him angry. That wall didn’t belong there. He drew more deeply from the force on the other side, and as he did, that strange limb grew thicker and thicker until the edges of the barrier were cutting into it. But he didn’t stop. He continued to draw on that power, and as the limb thickened even further, he heard the barrier creak and groan under the strain while his strange new arm cried out in agony.

  


Then, he flexed.

  


All around him, the barrier shattered like a pane of glass, and all of a sudden, it was like he could breathe for the first time in years, as if a rope had been strapped tightly around his chest all his life, and it was suddenly cut. He felt the power practically sing in joy as it was finally freed. He laughed in delight as that power gamboled and danced through his muscles like puppies at play. He giggled as that feeling of indescribable warmth sank deep into his bones, driving away the cold that was so desperately trying to seize him in its icy grasp once more.

  


As he smiled and laughed for what felt like the first time in his life, he noticed the taste of dirt in his mouth. This drew him back to the real world, where he realized he was still laying on the bank of that creek, even if he no longer felt the icy wind cutting through him. Blinking and giggling uncontrollably, he raised himself to his hands and knees and crawled to the crystal stream, drinking deeply of the crisp, cool water to soothe his painfully dry throat. Satisfied, he sat down by a nearby tree and sighed, reveling in the summer warmth that still oozed its way through every bone and muscle of his body.

  


Finally, though, after what felt like an age of basking in that beautiful heat, he frowned. He no longer felt the cold of his wet clothes, but the dampness was still annoying. Furrowing his brow in thought, he reached out to that power inside him once more, curious to see if it could do anything about this, though he wasn’t sure what. However, as he did, he studied that power, watching its still joyful twisting and dancing. He smiled at the sight. He reached out to it, giggling as the flickering power tickled his ghostly arm. Suddenly, he decided he wanted to see it with his real eyes. He wanted to watch its dancing and spinning. He gently cupped his ephemeral hand, delicately holding some of that power like a baby bird in his palm, and ever so slowly, he lifted it up and out.

  


Before his eyes, a crackling flame appeared hovering over the ground. In the inky black night, its red-gold light was as soothing to his eyes as its heat was to his skin. It never even occurred to him to be startled over the fire’s sudden appearance, or to be scared of the alien flame hovering so close to him. It was a part of him, just as much as his hands or his eyes. It danced around him like a long-lost friend, and he laughed in pure joy as he watched it. He reached out to touch it, and the merry flames suddenly changed, taking on the form of a fiery, strange-looking puppy as he pet it. The flames tickled his hand and flooded his arm with even more warmth, but it didn’t burn him. He never even considered that it might. The flame-born puppy rolled around on the ground as he tickled it before changing once again. This time, it looked like a snake as it swam through the air around him, circling around his arms and running through his hair as he laughed and tried to catch it. He never even noticed his clothes drying from the heat he was so distracted by this game. The crackling of the flame sounded like laughter as the fiery snake joyfully danced around the small boy. Just for a moment, he forgot everything else. He forgot the Dursleys, and his cupboard. He forgot how often he huddled on that ratty mattress, too scared or hurt or hungry or cold to sleep as he desperately tried to keep his whimpers quiet, hoping they would just forget he was there. He forgot how many times he laid on the floor just to feel that tiny sliver of light from the crack under his door on his face, or how often he had to burrow under every cast-off stitch of clothing he had to try and stay warm at night. He forgot how rarely that ever helped. Just for a moment, the only thing in the world that seemed real was him and that flame, and he laughed and played with it like he never could with other children. Just for a moment, he was warm and happy, as he had so rarely been.

  


And so, of course, that moment had to be broken as a shrill, feminine scream rang through the night.

  


* * *

  


Nearby, Master Faraji, noble and dignified master of the monastery, cursed to himself as spat dirt out of his mouth and untangled his damn robe from around his ears. _Friggin’ old men and their stupid rituals._ _Someone simply tries to take his time before jumping blind into who knows what, but does he give them a moment to gather their nerve? Nooooo! He chucks them through a damn portal to the ass end of nowhere!_ He paused at that thought before looking around curiously. _Speaking of, where the hell am I?_ It was dark, and it was mid-morning when he left, so wherever he was, it was far from the monastery. Of course, with this ritual, there was no telling where he’d been sent. Something about ‘riding the tides of magic to the place of greatest need to find the one whose fate intertwines with yours,’ or something else vague and mystical like that. He didn’t exactly listen all that closely. After all, he was only supposed to have _months_ before having to deal with this crap! He was so _not_ ready to be a mentor! A mentor would have listened to that stupid speech! He was still getting caught off guard by people calling him _Master_ Faraji! And yet he was supposed to take on an apprentice? _Whoever that poor kid is, he is so screwed._

  


He shook his head. _Come on, Far, focus!_ He was supposed to be letting magic itself guide him to his apprentice, or something like that, not that anyone ever gave a clear answer of _how_. His face took on an exaggerated look of serene wisdom. _“Ah, but Master Faraji,”_ he began in a spot-on impression of the high grandmaster, _“How can one tell a river how to flow? How can one tell a mountain how to rise? One cannot. That answer lies within them. You must find your own answer as well.”_ He snorted. _Whatever. Mangy old bastard. He’s probably just making crap up and laughing himself silly when people take it seriously. That’s what I’d do._ He paused at that. _Hmm. Maybe I’ll do better as a mentor than I thought._

  


He smirked at that before shaking himself and getting down to business. He took a deep breath in and reached out to the arcane forces. “Ummm, let’s see … uh, oh great and mighty river of magic, uh, lead me to the one that, uh, you are to … lead me to, I guess. Yadda yadda yadda, something something mystical, whatever, let’s go.” He snickered at the thought of Grandmaster Arcelia’s expression if she heard that. _Little Miss “Mistress of Rituals” would probably have an aneurysm._ Still snickering, he closed his eyes and held his hands out in front of him. Deep inside himself, he reached out to his core, letting his magic fill him. Of course, that didn’t mean it was suddenly pointing him anywhere.

  


Which meant he had to improvise.

  


_Alright, let’s see, which way feels righter?_ He stumbled blindly to his left, before changing direction for no discernible reason. _Aha! This way then!_ He staggered blindly forward, still with his eyes shut and his arms outstretched. _Well, this isn’t so bad. I don’t know what I was worried about. I’ve got thi—_

  


CRACK

  


“SON OF A …” He rolled around on the ground grunting and cursing as he clutched his head, which he had just cracked on a low-hanging branch. _Alright, so maybe I don’t have this_ , he thought with a whimper as he tried to clear his watering eyes. Suddenly, though, he realized his eyes were watering from something other than pain. He sniffed at the air. _Is that … smoke?_ He realized there was a faint red glow coming from somewhere off to his right, so, wincing and clutching at his head, he climbed to his feet and straightened his now thoroughly ruined robes for the umpteenth friggin’ time before staggering off to his right.

  


He sniffed at the air again. _Oh yeah, definitely smoke._ _And getting thicker, too._ _Good. Whatever’s out here, I’m getting closer._ He brushed a weave of branches out of his face. _Now here’s hoping it’s my apprentice and not some random-ass campers._ He rubbed his forehead again. _Man, that really smarts._

  


And that was the vision that graced his soon-to-be apprentice. A six-foot-five stranger with coal-dark skin stumbling out of the trees dressed in torn, dirt-caked robes that might have once been some kind of reddish color, and all the while muttering under his breath and rubbing at a visible knot on his forehead while blinking blearily at the sudden fire-light.

  


Needless to say, dignity and poise was in rather short supply.

  


However, once Faraji’s eyes adjusted to the light and he could finally stop peering around like he was half blind, he finally received his own first impression of his (probably) soon-to-be apprentice. Standing in the middle of a clearing by the bed of a creek crouched a little boy. He wasn’t good with kid’s ages, so he had no idea how old he was, especially given the ridiculously over-sized clothes the kid was practically drowning in. However, he could tell the kid was young. Very young. And _thin_! His cheeks were hollow and his eyes looked like caves. It looked like the kid had his last meal a week ago, and not a gourmet meal either. Combine that with his pale, colorless skin, and he could have passed as the world’s tiniest vampire. Looking beyond that, Faraji noted a rat’s nest of jet-black hair on the kid’s head, and his eyes … Faraji blinked at how vividly green they were. _Kid’s gonna grow up to be a heart-breaker one day with eyes like that,_ he noted with amusement. He looked again at the kid’s gaunt cheeks. _Well,_ he amended, _maybe once he’s had a sandwich or two. Hundred._ Of course, what really drew his attention wasn’t the kid’s eyes or his clothes. It was the wall of fire in front of him.

  


Traced along the ground in front of him was a six-foot long line of fire with flames as tall as the kid’s waist. He noted that they almost seemed to crackle … threateningly, somehow, and they gave off a thick black smoke that rose up almost like a smokescreen trying to partially hide the kid from view. He then noticed that the kid was completely unfazed by the fire in front of him, and was instead glaring daggers at him as if trying to seem threatening, though his shaking hands gave the act away.

  


Faraji gently raised his hands. “Easy, kid. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  


“W-who are you?” the kid spoke in what sounded like a British accent. Were they in England?

  


Faraji smiled, showing off his snowy-white teeth. “My name is Faraji. What’s yours?”

  


“Why are you here?” the kid demanded, ignoring his question.

  


“I’m here to help you,” Faraji replied gently.

  


“Liar,” the kid spat. “Uncle Vernon sent you. I’m not going back. You can’t make me. Not anymore. Not now I’ve got my friend.”

  


“Friend?” Faraji asked curiously. “Is there someone else out here with you?”

  


“Yes. Now go away! You don’t want to make my friend mad. He’ll hurt you.”

  


Faraji noticed the fire flared a bit at that statement, as if backing up the kid’s words. He cocked his head at that. “Do you mean the fire? Is that the friend you’re talking about?”

  


The kid’s mouth twisted unhappily. “Just go away. Please. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m not going back.”

  


“Easy kid. I’m not here to send you back to … wherever it is you’re talking about,” he said gently. “I’m here because I’m like you.”

  


“What?” The kid seemed confused by that statement. Faraji chuckled and turned one of his raised hands palm up, conjuring a flame above his empty hand. The boy’s jaw dropped in shock, and Faraji noted in amusement and curiosity that his wall of flame mirrored this by dropping almost flat to the ground. “You’re … you can do it too?!” His eyes lit up in glee. “That’s awesome! I thought I was …” The boy trailed off as his brow furrowed in thought before his eyes took on a suspicious glint once more. “Why are you here? How did you find me? What do you want?”

  


Faraji smiled and dismissed his conjured flame. “Relax, kid. I promise I’m not going to hurt you. But before I tell you why I’m here, do you mind if I sit?” The kid looked like he gave the question some thought before he slowly nodded. Faraji nodded in thanks before he sat with a sigh and looked expectantly at the kid. The kid hesitated for a moment before sitting too. As he did, the line of fire collapsed into a flame the size of a basketball, and to Faraji’s shock, that flame then took on the shape of a long-tailed bird that then flew onto the boy’s shoulder. Faraji tried to keep the surprise off his face. Someone as young as this kid looked shouldn’t be in conscious control of his magic already. It would normally just be subconsciously reacting to his emotions at this point, which is what he assumed the wall of flames was doing when he thought he was in danger. As he watched the kid reach up and gently pet the bird-shaped flame on his shoulder, he realized that there might be more to this kid than his ratty appearance suggested.

  


“What?”

  


Faraji realized he had been staring. “Nothing, sorry.”

  


The kid frowned. “Well then, why are you here?”

  


“Oh! Uh, right.” Faraji shook himself and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Um, where do I start? Uh, I come from a group of people who study magic.”

  


“Magic?” the boy asked curiously. “Is that what this is?”

  


Faraji was surprised at the question. The kid really knew nothing about his powers. “Yes, you are using magic. It’s an ancient and complicated power that can do a lot of things, such as,” he nodded to the bird on the boy’s shoulder, “conjuring fire.”

  


The boy’s eyes shined with more than just suspicion now. “It can do other stuff?” he asked eagerly.

  


Faraji chuckled at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Yes, magic can do a whole lot of stuff. The problem is, it’s really hard to learn how to use it all alone. Most can’t learn how to do more than a few things with it by themselves, if they manage even that much. That’s where the group I mentioned comes in. They’ve been studying and practicing magic for a very long time. In fact, when I first found my powers, they were the ones that took me in and taught me how to use them.”

  


“You mean there’s others like us?” the boy seemed surprised by this.

  


Faraji smiled. “Oh yeah, there’s a lot of people like us. Not as many as those who can’t use magic, but we’re definitely not alone.”

  


The boy frowned. “You want to take me to the people who taught you.” The kid was sharp. “Why should I trust you? I don’t know you.” He was cautious, too. _It looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me._

  


“You’re right, kid. You don’t know me. Yet. So, what would you like to know?” Faraji saw that the kid didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. “How about I tell you a little about myself?” The kid slowly nodded. “All right, let’s see … I was born in Tanzania over in East Africa. I lost my parents when I was very young, and I had to grow up on the streets scrounging for food. Sometimes I stole.” Faraji grimaced at that. “I’m not proud of it, but I needed to eat, and I didn’t have a lot of choices. I started to fall in with a bad crowd, but after a while, I found my powers, and then, one day, Master Liang found me. He took me in and brought me to the monastery, and I’ve been there ever since.”

  


The kid looked thoughtful. “How did Master Lau … Lia …”

  


“Liang,” Faraji supplied helpfully, watching the small boy struggle with the name.

  


“Master _Liang_. How’d he find you?” The boy looked curious.

  


“The same way I found you,” Faraji answered with a smile. “When someone is raised to the rank of master, they are sometimes called to perform a ritual. This ritual sends them to whoever is supposed to be their apprentice, wherever that person might be. Of course, that usually happens after someone’s been a master for a long time, not one friggin’ week …” Faraji caught himself as he realized he was starting to get off topic and that the kid was looking confused. “The point is, I don’t really know how Master Liang found me, just like I’m not really sure how I found you. You could say that magic showed us the way.”

  


The boy seemed to think that was cool, going by his expression.

  


“So, now you know a little about me. What do you think?” Faraji leaned forward with a look of anticipation.

  


“I … think you’re cool.”

  


“Finally!” Faraji exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air in victory. “Finally someone recognizes it!”

  


The kid giggled a bit at that. Faraji smiled at him. “So … I’m supposed to go with you to the monanam … the monsatur …”

  


“Monastery.”

  


“The _monastery,_ ” the kid said slowly. “And I’m supposed to be your prenesti …”

  


“Apprentice.”

  


“Your _apprentice_ ,” the kid corrected. “And you’ll teach me how to use my magic?”

  


Faraji nodded. “However, it’s your choice whether you go or stay here.”

  


“It is?” the kid asked with surprise.

  


“Of course,” Faraji replied with a kind smile. “I mean, if you don’t, then I’ll have to go back alone, and everyone will point and laugh, and stupid Takeshi will _never_ let me forget it, but yes, it’s totally your choice.”

  


The kid seemed confused at that. “Who’s Taki …”

  


“Takeshi? Oh he’s the Grandmaster of Arcana. Total stick in the mud. Wouldn’t know how to have fun if someone beat him with a pair of clown shoes. Can’t stand me for some reason …” Faraji trailed off at that looking thoughtful, as if trying to contemplate some great mystery, before he finally shrugged and seemed to just give up.

  


The boy didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. “Sooo … should we go?”

  


Faraji was taken aback by that. “Wait, just like that? You’ve made up your mind?”

  


The boy nodded. “I want to learn about magic, and I don’t want Mr. Taksi to make fun of you.”

  


Faraji had to fight to hold back a snort of laughter. “Mr. Taxi? Oh, I am so using that one next time I see him!” He snickered at the thought.

  


The boy cocked his head at him. “You’re weird.”

  


Faraji grinned. “Guilty! Now come on, let’s go!” He bounced to his feet and brushed off the back of his now mostly brown robes, not seeming to realize there was little point by now. The kid got to his feet with a bit more poise before he seemed to remember something.

  


“Mr. Fargee?”

  


“Faraji,” Faraji corrected absently.

  


“ _Faraji_. Did you see a little girl in the woods on your way here?”

  


Faraji was curious at the question. “No, I didn’t. Why do you ask? Were you out here with her?”

  


The kid shook his head. “No, but I thought I hear a girl scream just before you showed up. I thought you might have seen her.”

  


Faraji felt heat rush to his face as he realized what the kid was talking about. Thankfully, his skin tone hid his blush. Unfortunately, his tongue wasn’t so skilled. “Oh, that! I, uh, I heard that too. It wasn’t a girl. It was, uh, a, um, an owl! Yes, uh, an owl! A screeching owl!”

  


The boy looked confused. “Are you sure? ‘Cause it sounded just like a girl—”

  


“Totally sure!” Faraji interrupted hastily. “Yeah, um, screeching owls sound a lot like girls sometimes … yeah.” Faraji cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Now, shall we go?” He winced at the pleading tone in his voice, hoping the kid wouldn’t notice it.

  


“Where are we supposed to go?” the boy asked curiously.

  


Faraji quietly sighed in relief before answering. “Well, the portal that sent me here disappeared after I arrived, but it should show up again once we’re both readeeeeeee!” He ended with a squeal as the portal suddenly appeared about an inch from his face. He collected himself and brushed his robes calmly as if that hadn’t happened, but he noticed the kid looking at him suspiciously after hearing such a similar screech to what he heard earlier. “Well, um, there’s the portal. We should go, are you going, I’m going, we should … let’s go.” He mentally cursed his stupid habit of speed-talking when he was nervous.

  


The kid looked like he didn’t quite know how to respond to his companion’s suddenly bizarre behavior, but he was a bit distracted in looking at a magic portal for the first time, much to Faraji’s relief. “So … do we just … walk through?” he asked.

  


“Oh! Um, we should probably hold onto each other.” Looking at the portal, he blindly reached for the boy’s arm with his right hand only to snatch his hand back after passing it through the fiery bird still latched onto his shoulder, which was now glaring at him as if offended. “You, uh … you should probably dismiss your … friend,” he told the boy without looking away from the hand he had touched the bird with.

  


“Oh,” the boy replied in a small, sad voice. He hesitated, but then he gently nodded and turned his head to look at the bird. The bird looked back into his eyes for a moment before lowering its head and vanishing in a small cloud of ash, and as it did, the boy brought his hand gently to his chest with a sad, distant look on his face. However, that look was soon replaced with a small yet somehow radiant smile, as if he had found something he was looking for. Still smiling, he turned to the tall man beside him, only to find that Faraji had seen none of this, as the man was still staring transfixed at his own hand with an indecipherable look on his face. “Mr. Farji?” Faraji snapped back to reality at the boy’s voice, lowering his hand. “Are you okay?”

  


“Hm? Oh yeah, I’m fine,” Faraji replied, absently flexing his right hand.

  


“Should we … should we go?” the boy asked, confused.

  


“Oh right, yes.” Faraji walked over to the boy’s other side and gently rested his left hand on the boy’s shoulder, still with a slightly distant look on his face, before he shook his head and seemed to truly focus again. He looked down at the boy by his side with a smile. “Well, let’s go!”

  


The boy grinned back, and together, they stepped into the portal, and where they once were, nothing was left but the faint smell of smoke and the sound of the creek flowing ever onward.


	3. One of us, one of us

Back in the snow-capped mountains, the assembled grandmasters eagerly awaited the return of Master Faraji with their latest apprentice.

  


“At what point may we acknowledge that he has failed so that we may go about our day?”

  


Well, most did, anyway.

  


“The ritual is still in effect, Grandmaster Takashi,” a serene, feminine voice replied from one side of the circle. “He has not failed.”

  


“But perhaps he has, Manisha,” Takashi retorted, unconvinced. “Perhaps he is simply delaying his return because he fears to face the shame of his failure. Such denial is unhealthy. I propose that we end the ritual and allow him to find his own way back … if he can. All those in favor?” He shot his hand in the air.

  


A bald-headed man with a goatee gave a loud, draw-out groan. _Oh, here we go._ “Look, we get it. _Believe me,_ we get it. You hate him. WE KNOW! Now would you please shut up about it? For the love of magic, get a room or get a hobby!”

  


“Do not tell me what I can and cannot say, Cyrus!” The high grandmaster gave a weary sigh as the ever-irascible Grandmaster Takashi and the hot-headed Grandmaster Cyrus sank into an increasingly childish battle of words in the ritual chamber. Again. _Some days, I feel like I am running a daycare rather than_ _an ancient_ _order_ _of mages_ , he thought with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion _._ And judging by the expressions of some of the other grandmasters, he was not alone in such thoughts. Some, he noted with even more amusement, were even willing to express those thoughts, as the twin sisters present, the only siblings among their number, somehow found themselves tangled up in the spirited … _discussion_ now echoing throughout the chamber. _Well, at least they’re not yelling at each other for once. That’s progress._ Hearing a quiet groan of pain, he turned to see Grandmaster Arcelia rubbing her temples as she watched the on-going display of decorum and dignity.

  


“I’m surrounded by idiots,” she quietly muttered. He chuckled at the statement, which made her pale as she realized he had heard her. “I-I didn’t mean you, of course, High Grandmaster!” she hastily assured him.

  


“That’s quite alright, Grandmaster Arcelia,” he told her with a smile, turning back to the show. “I know you didn’t.” Almost immediately, however, he noticed the patterns of color begin swirling in the portal before them once more. “They return.”

  


Grandmaster Arcelia noticed this as well. “Alright, everyone!” she called out to the warring room. “They’re on their way through. If you can manage it, this might be the time to remember that you are grandmasters of this monastery, and to uphold yourselves accordingly.” She received a number of glares from the embattled grandmasters this was directed towards, but to the high grandmaster’s relief (and a small measure of disappointment), the fighting stopped and everyone regained their places. He snorted quietly as he saw some of them even put on expressions of serene tranquility to impress the new arrival, as if they hadn’t just been red-faced and screaming mere moments earlier. _I wonder how long they will manage to maintain this illusion for our new apprentice_ , he mused as the colors in the portal swirled even more violently. _Perhaps_ _they will manage_ _a_ _week this time._ _If_ _they are_ truly _committed,_ _that is_ _._

  


With that thought, the portal flared one last time, and out stepped Master Faraji and a young boy, with the portal snapping shut and vanishing behind them. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Master Faraji’s tattered, muddy robes and the prominent knot on his forehead. For a moment, he wondered if some of the grandmasters would even make it a minute without breaking composure, given the way some of them were clearly shaking with suppressed laughter at the sight. However, the frayed and twig-covered master did not hold his attention for long. His eyes were drawn to the newest member of their strange little family.

  


The boy looked younger than most of their new apprentices. However, it was possible he was older than his apparent small size would indicate, given how the boy was dwarfed by both the over-sized Master Faraji at his side and the veritable sea of tattered clothing he was swimming in. Looking more closely at the clothes, he noticed that while they were clearly cast-offs, and torn and muddied from whatever adventure the similarly battered Master Faraji had retrieved him from, they didn’t quite look as old, frayed, or mismatched as they would if the boy had been living on the streets. The child came from a home. He didn’t rummage the clothing out of a refuse bin.

  


Looking at the boy himself, he was … disturbed. To put it lightly. The child was sickly pale, and he looked half-starved. If he had been living on the streets, that would have been understandable, if still regrettable, but if he came from a home … However, he noticed a distinct fire in the boy’s deep-set eyes as they darted around the chamber to study all of the strangely dressed people surrounding him. He was obviously alert, and more than wary, but he wasn’t cowering or hiding behind Master Faraji. No. He stood tall as he almost glared at the robed strangers around him, as if daring them to attack him if that was their plan. The old man smiled at the sight. _The boy’s spirit is strong._ He cleared his throat. “Who comes before this monastery?” he intoned, as per the custom of the ceremony.

  


Master Faraji turned from the boy to look at him distractedly. “Hm? Oh, I do.”

  


“And who comes with you?” the high grandmaster continued, ignoring the less than formal response.

  


“One who seeks a place as an apprentice of this monastery,” Master Faraji answered more appropriately.

  


The high grandmaster nodded. “Then let him speak.” The boy looked around in confusion as the two began the exchange, but at those words, he swallowed and stepped forward, clearly still nervous and afraid, but doing his best not to show it. _B_ _rave_ , the old man observed. _He’ll do well_. He put on a stern face as he looked at the boy. “Why do you come here?”

  


The boy hesitated, and seemed almost about to turn back towards Master Faraji for guidance, but instead squared his shoulders and lifted his chin to meet the old man’s eyes. “I-I want to learn magic.”

  


The high grandmaster nodded. “And will you do as you are instructed, and learn what you are taught?”

  


The young boy nodded. “I will.”

  


“And will you honor your teachers, and this monastery?”

  


The boy nodded again, seeming to grow in conviction and confidence as the questions continued. “I will.”

  


“And will you promise to always respect magic, which has so graciously gifted us with its blessing?”

  


The boy nodded again, almost fiercely this time. “I will! I promise.”

  


The high grandmaster nodded once more. “Then I name you an apprentice of this monastery.” His stern face broke into a smile once more. “Welcome home.” The boy smiled wide, his eyes shining with happiness and excitement. The high grandmaster smiled back at him warmly before turning to Master Faraji as his eyes began to glow with magic, signaling the start of the final and most binding act of the ritual. “Master Faraji.” Master Faraji gulped audibly before stepping forward. “You were chosen by magic to seek out this apprentice, and to bring him home to us.” The runic circle around them, largely forgotten by this point, hummed with power once more. “I ask you now, will you guide and shelter him as he begins his path as our newest brother?”

  


Master Faraji seemed more than a little uncertain of this, but he (shakily) nodded. “I … I will.” The humming grew louder as the sigils flared with light at his response, bathing everyone in a warm, red glow as the ceremony continued.

  


The high grandmaster turned to the young apprentice by Master Faraji’s side, who by now was staring in awe at the dazzling symbols on the ground around them. “Apprentice. Will you accept Master Faraji as your guide and mentor, and will you honor and respect him as he conducts you on your way?”

  


The boy turned to look up at the now visibly sweating Master Faraji before turning back to the high grandmaster. “I will,” he replied, and with none of Master Faraji’s hesitation, the old man noted with amusement. _This should make an interesting pair._ The circle flared once more, this time changing to a brilliant gold that cast everyone in an ethereal glow. The hum grew to a fever pitch as it did, echoing in everyone’s ears and making their teeth vibrate in their skulls as the energy in the room built to a climax, until finally, all sound seemed to die as the humming stopped dead, like a tuning fork that had suddenly frozen. The air dripped with the taste of anticipation, and the whole world and magic itself seemed to pause and hold their breath as everyone awaited the final response.

  


The high grandmaster nodded in satisfaction. “Then I name Faraji your master, and I name you his apprentice. So mote it be.” With that, all sound resumed as the humming returned with a vengeance, this time cresting in a triumphant blare. The circle flared with a pure, clean white light that seemed to shine more brightly on the newly named master and apprentice, who appeared monochromatic in its brilliance. The boy laughed as the magic swirled around him, and that sound echoed throughout the room like the chime of a bell as the ritual drew to a close and all of the light flooding the chamber was drawn swirling to the two in the center like water down a funnel. As it did, those who were watching noticed it flare brilliantly around the right biceps of the master and apprentice before finally fading away. With one last flicker, the symbols drawn on the ground lost their power and joined suit, disappearing like a mirage in the desert.

  


For a moment, silence reigned in the chamber, before it was broken by the rustle of cloth and the crinkle of leaves as Master Faraji rolled up his dirtied right sleeve to look at the mark of a chain of runes encircling his bicep, a sign of his newfound connection to his apprentice, and the responsibility that came with it. He stared at the mark with an unreadable expression on his face, but after a moment, that expression changed to nervous acceptance as he looked over at the small boy at his side, whose eyes were still shining with wonder at this new world he had been made a part of. Master Faraji’s face softened into a warm smile at the sight.

  


“Look at your arm,” he said gently. His new apprentice looked confused for a moment before imitating his new master and pulling back his voluminous right sleeve, baring a small, bony arm branded with an identical tattoo. His left hand traced his new mark as Faraji knelt and continued softly. “This is the mark of our bond,” he explained. “It’s a sign that magic itself has accepted me as your mentor, and you as my ward. Until you become a master of this monastery, no matter what happens, that mark will always be there … just like I will.”

  


Faraji seemed nervous as he finished, waiting for the boy to respond. The child stared for a little longer at the mark, but eventually, he raised his head to meet Faraji’s eyes. He didn’t say a word, but his glistening eyes spoke for him. He threw himself at Faraji in a hug, who hesitated for a moment in surprise before his expression softened and he wrapped his arms around the sniffling young boy.

  


“Th-thank you, Mister Fargee.” His grip tightened. “ _Thank you_.”

  


The high grandmaster felt his own eyes moisten at the sight, and he saw a shine in some of the others’ eyes that said he wasn’t alone in feeling touched by the moving scene in front of him. All too soon, however, the scene ended as the boy pulled back, wiping his eyes on his dirtied, over-sized sleeve. “You know, we really need to get you out of those rags and into some proper clothes,” Master Faraji remarked to the boy.

  


“Some could say the same to you right now, Faraji,” one of the grandmasters commented with a laugh. Master Faraji looked down in chagrin at his own ruined robes at the comment.

  


“True enough,” he replied before turning back to the boy. “Listen, why don’t you go with Grandmaster Asa here to go get changed into some apprentice robes,” he said, waving the aforementioned grandmaster over. “I have to talk to some of the others for a minute before I get changed myself. I’ll meet up with you in one of the meditation chambers in a bit,” he finished with a look at the approaching Asa, who nodded. The boy seemed nervous at this, but he was soon distracted as Grandmaster Asa came over and knelt in front of him.

  


The high grandmaster nodded in approval at Faraji’s move. The young Arabic woman was by far the kindest, gentlest soul he had ever met. She was a good choice to help the boy feel more comfortable, and as Grandmaster of the Body, and thus the monastery’s chief healer, she was well suited to subtly checking the boy’s health in the process. _And he was worried that he wouldn’t do well with an apprentice_ , the high grandmaster thought with a smile.

  


“Hello,” Grandmaster Asa began sweetly. “My name is Asa. Would you like to come with me? We can get you cleaned up and into some warmer clothes.” As she spoke, she gently reached out and brushed a clump of mud from the boy’s pale, hollow cheek. However, the high grandmaster noted that the boy stiffened as she did so, as if consciously forcing himself to remain still. Combining that with the wary, slightly confused look in the boy’s eyes, and the old man’s smile faded immediately. _His reflex is to view kindness_ _and_ _compassion as a trick_ , he observed. Suddenly, the youthful-looking old man felt every one of his long years deep in his bones as a feeling of profound sadness swept over him. _The_ _boy came from a home_ , he remembered. _And this is what they taught him._ He sighed in grief at the evil that lay in some people’s hearts.

  


Despite his obvious caution, however, the boy eventually took Grandmaster Asa’s outstretched hand and allowed her to lead him out of the chamber. He looked back briefly before turning back to the kind woman smiling down at him. Just before they rounded the corner at the entrance, the old man saw the boy give her a tenuous smile in return.

  


As they left, the old man walked up to the newly minted mentor, as did some of the other grandmasters, while still others simply left, eager to return to their regular duties. However, before they could say a word, they were interrupted by Master Faraji calling out to one of the grandmasters slowly streaming out the exit, and the last person they would have expected, too.

  


“Grandmaster Takashi!” The severe-looking Japanese grandmaster whipped around in surprise. “I’d like you to stay, if you don’t mind. I’d like to speak with you about my new apprentice.” The old man could practically feel the jaws of all the remaining grandmasters drop at that. Not only did Faraji willingly speak with Takashi, but he did so without a single barb or sarcastic remark. He found himself eyeing the slightly bloody bump on the man’s forehead. _Definitely a concussion_ , he concluded. _Asa will need to take a look at that._

  


“Are … are you feeling alright, Master Faraji?” Grandmaster Arcelia inquired, clearly sharing his concerns.

  


“Yeah, I’m fine,” Faraji assured her, turning back to the grandmaster still standing frozen in surprise in the entryway. “Grandmaster Takashi … please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” Grandmaster Takashi’s eyes looked like they were going to fall out of his face at the word “please,” and the old man wasn’t sure his own wouldn’t join them. _I need to send word to Asa. Master Faraji is clearly worse off than I thought_ , he reflected in concern as a still-stunned Takashi gave an uncertain nod. Suddenly, all of the other grandmasters seemed far less certain about leaving, but eventually, the call of their other engagements proved too strong, and they reluctantly trickled out of the chamber, except for the few gathered around Faraji.

  


And Grandmaster Takashi.

  


“Well … um … congratulations, Master Faraji,” Arcelia continued, still obviously thrown off by Master Faraji’s unexpected move.

  


“Yes, congratulations on finding your new apprentice, Master Faraji,” the North Indian Grandmaster Manisha complimented more smoothly. “He seems like he will be a fine addition to this monastery.”

  


“His spirit is strong,” the albino Grandmaster Virgil abruptly commented in his usual half-distracted tone of voice, as if barely noticing the words he was speaking or to whom. “It will echo into the distant reaches of eternity and stride into the frozen depths of shadow to breathe fire and light once more. It will swim through the waters of oblivion and soar through the fires of creation, and Death shall flee before it.”

  


Everyone stood silent as the absent-minded Grandmaster Virgil finished, uncertain how to process what he had just said or how to respond to it, as was typical for any exchange with the painfully distant Grandmaster of Spirit. As for the snow-skinned Grandmaster Virgil, he simply stood there, staring through them as if at something far in the distance with his cloudy, pale pink eyes, before he unceremoniously turned and walked out of the chamber as if nothing had been said and nothing more remained to be said.

  


Those remaining looked at each other, left off balance by the experience, but the high grandmaster stared after the retreating mage. He often spouted out airy, incomprehensible declarations, a result of being too in tune with his element and seeing too much into the mystical and too little of the mundane, but this seemed more … significant than usual. It bore reflecting on.

  


“Oooo … kay,” the normally unflappable Manisha began. “Was there … something the matter, Master Faraji? You seemed distracted. Well, before … _that_ , I mean.”

  


“Um … yeah, there was,” Master Faraji responded, trying to regain his mental footing. “It’s about my apprentice.”

  


“How so?” Manisha inquired.

  


“Well, for one thing, he’s already consciously using his magic,” Faraji replied. “He even seems in control of it. It’s not just reacting to emotions or his subconscious.” The old man was surprised to hear that. It was very uncommon for someone as young as that boy looked to have already begun consciously using his magic.

  


“What is so significant about that?” Grandmaster Takashi cut in, having joined the outer edges of the gathering at some point. “Yes, such a thing is uncommon for someone of his age, but it is not unheard of, especially for a child in extreme prolonged stress.” That was true, though it was far more likely for a child’s magic to turn completely wild and uncontrollable than it was to submit to his conscious control in such a circumstance. “What, does the child’s talent with magic disturb you?” Grandmaster Takashi continued with a sneer. “Are you concerned that you cannot properly train someone with talent, and you are already groveling for our help? Or perhaps you are concerned that he will outstrip your own meager abilities.”

  


“How did his magic manifest?” Grandmaster Manisha interjected before the now glaring Master Faraji could retort. The old man was glad of it. Their little spat grew tiresome after a certain point.

  


“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Faraji answered, still glaring at Takashi. “In fact, Manisha, I would like you to contact Asa and ask her to move the boy into the meditation chamber and encourage him to … I don’t know … stretch his magical muscles or something. You really need to see this.”

  


Manisha’s eyes widened at that. “You do realize that, given the state that boy looked to be in, Asa is likely going to want to take her time checking on his health. If you make her rush through that, she will likely ensure that you have need of another healer’s services for yourself.” The old man felt himself shudder at the thought. Grandmaster Asa, while one of the sweetest and most helpful people in the world, was also renowned for her temper if anything got in the way of her treating one of her patients. Faraji was taking a grave risk.

  


“I’m aware, and it’s important. Tell her that. Please.” _Well, this certainly promises to be interesting_ , the old man thought as Grandmaster Manisha, though clearly surprised, gave a nod of acquiescence and closed her eyes, reaching out to the mind of Grandmaster Asa to deliver the message.

  


“What is this about, Master Faraji?” the high grandmaster finally asked. “Is there a problem with the boy’s magic?”

  


Faraji didn’t seem to quite know how to answer. “Not … as such. It’s more of … Well, I’m just not sure … Look, it’s best if you see for yourselves before I start explaining. You wouldn’t believe me otherwise.” Looks of confusion and concern spread over the faces of those present, though Grandmaster Takashi’s was muted by general disdain and impatience.

  


“Alright, Faraji,” Manisha spoke up suddenly. “The boy is in the room, and Asa is on her way here. I’d advise you to brace yourself.” Manisha seemed to think for a moment. “Or to flee. Either one.”

  


The old man snorted. _The latter would by far be the wiser choice._ _Healers make for terrifying enemies_. And given Master Faraji’s sweating brow, he agreed. However, to his credit, his simply planted his feet and nodded confidently. Of course, the rapid bobbing of his Adam’s apple from his convulsive nervous swallowing somewhat spoiled the effect.

  


“A-a-alright.” The broken voice didn’t exactly help either, though Master Faraji cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to fix that. “Arcelia, would you please set up a scrying portal?”

  


Grandmaster Takashi sniffed in disdain. “And already you’ve resorted to spying on your apprentice. So sad.” The old man could hear Master Faraji’s teeth grinding at the remark, but otherwise, he ignored it.

  


Arcelia, meanwhile, nodded and stepped to the side. “I can do that. It won’t be as good as Grandmaster Adriane’s work, but it will hold together.” Her hands began to glow a soft orange as she began moving them through the air as if weaving a carpet. “I assume you want it to be one-way only,” she called over her shoulder.

  


“That’d be perfect, thank you,” Master Faraji replied distractedly as he studiously watched the entrance, clearly on the lookout for Grandmaster Asa.

  


Which served him not at all when she stepped out of a portal behind him. “Faraji,” she said in a very tight voice. Faraji spun in a panic at the sound. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain why you interrupted my meeting with our young new apprentice.” She stalked forward, which resulted in the almost six-and-a-half-foot-tall Master Faraji frantically backpedaling from the barely five-foot-tall woman in front of him. “After all, I would hate to deprive the boy of a master so soon without knowing why,” she finished with a disturbing glint in her eyes that made the high grandmaster decide that the wisest course of action was simply to not get involved. This, of course, had nothing to do with his desire for self preservation. It was all for Master Faraji’s own good. Somehow.

  


Master Faraji was by now backing away from Asa with his hands outstretched as if trying to calm a rabid tiger. “Well, um, you see … How’s that scrying portal coming, Arcelia?!”

  


“Hm?” Arcelia replied in an amused, airy tone of voice. “Oh, was I still supposed to be doing that?”

  


“ARCELIA!”

  


“Oh, fine,” Arcelia replied with an absent wave of her hands at the small glowing vortex in front of her, making it snap to form a glowing ring three feet across, through which they could see a young boy dressed in crimson robes sitting cross-legged on a rug in a plain, stone chamber.

  


“That’s it!” Faraji cried out desperately. “That’s why!”

  


Asa turned to look at the scrying portal, and when she turned back, one of her large, almond-shaped eyes was twitching, a truly terrible sign to those who knew her. “So,” she began again in a soft, dangerous voice, “You not only called me away before I could finish checking the boy’s health, but you did so because you wanted to spy on him?” Faraji’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish on dry land.

  


Takashi smiled. “Oh, you are doing wonderfully so far, Master Faraji. Please, keep going.”

  


The high grandmaster, however, ceased paying attention, because at that moment, he saw the boy summon a dancing flame the size of a campfire. “You were right, Master Faraji,” he commented, not turning to see said master completely cowering before the now soon-to-blow Grandmaster Asa. “He is consciously controlling his magic.” To his extreme surprise, he even watched that flame take the shape of a small dragon that began flying around the now laughing child. _Astounding_.

  


“How … how is he doing that already?” a flabbergasted Grandmaster Takashi asked beside him. “This level of control should be beyond any novice mage without instruction, _especially_ one as young as he.”

  


“Was he doing this when you retrieved him, Faraji?” Grandmaster Arcelia called over her shoulder, to which there was no reply. “Master Faraji?” She looked back and sighed at what she saw. “Asa, put him down.”

  


“No!”

  


“Yes, Asa. _Now_.”

  


The high grandmaster heard a put-upon sigh followed by a heavy thump and a whimper from behind him, but he kept his eyes trained on the magical window in front of him, and the remarkable scene he was witnessing through it.

  


“Well, Faraji?” Arcelia continued unsympathetically. “Was he doing this earlier?”

  


Faraji groaned pitifully as he picked himself up from the floor behind them. “If you mean the fire animal thing, then yeah,” he answered.

  


The high grandmaster assumed as much. “Then it would seem that we have a fire savant among our number,” he observed. _This boy_ _definitely_ _promises to be an interesting addition to our family_.

  


“Actually, I’m not so sure,” Master Faraji surprisingly replied as he limped over to join them.

  


Arcelia turned to him in surprise. “What do you mean? Being a savant in the only real explanation for how he can be demonstrating refined control of fire at such a young age without any training,” she declared. The high grandmaster was confused as well, but chose to keep his eyes on the boy at play with his fiery dragon while Master Faraji explained.

  


“Oh, he’s a savant, alright,” Faraji replied, “But … I don’t think that’s fire he’s summoning.” The old man did turn to look at him at that.

  


“What do you mean, Faraji?” Arcelia asked in confusion. “If that’s not fire, what else would it be?”

  


“I think …,” Faraji answered hesitantly, apparently struggling to find the words. “I think it’s … arcana,” he finally said, turning to look at the now stunned Grandmaster Takashi. “Raw magical energy.”

  


The old man was stunned as well. “Why … do you think that, Master Faraji?”

  


Faraji lifted his right hand and stared at it while he began his explanation. “Just before we left through the portal, I accidentally passed my hand through that weird fire of his.” He began slowly opening and closing his hand as if it was half asleep as he continued. “It didn’t burn me, or even feel warm. It felt like … I can’t even really describe it. Kind of like I stuck my hand in an electrical socket, but not painful. It was … I can’t find the words. But my hand still feels almost numb from it. And I’ve only felt that from one thing before.” He started lightly shaking his hand before he turned to look at Takashi.

  


Everyone looked stunned at the news, but after a moment, the look on Grandmaster Takashi’s face was slowly overtaken with pure rage. All of a sudden, Takashi lifted his right hand palm up in a claw. The look of rage became balanced by extreme concentration and herculean effort as every muscle in his body gave an almost audible creak as they tightened. The others all stepped back from the now sweating and groaning Takashi as magical energy built around him. His face turned red and tightened and his brow furrowed as his body was surrounded in a glowing silver aura, but his eyes never wavered from their look of intense focus and effort. As the air around him began to take on a metallic taste and Takashi’s hair stood on end from the heavy charge in the air, he abruptly gave a loud snarl of effort and a glowing silver sphere of raw magical energy was ripped into form above his now trembling palm. Takashi breathed heavily through his nostrils as his aura died down and his now sweat-soaked hair began to lay flat on his head once more, though slightly tousled from the experience. Meanwhile, the sphere of energy hovering over his palm remained absolutely motionless, somehow giving the impression of unyielding rigidity and tightly bound pressure as it quietly hummed without the slightest change in cadence or pitch.

  


“ _That_ … is arcana,” Takashi snarled, slightly out of breath. “This is the result of a lifetime of effort, _decades_ of study! This small sphere took more focus and control to form than you could manage in three lifetimes, Faraji!” Spittle flew from his lips as he raged. “This is not a … a _child’s_ PLAYTHING!” He breathed raggedly as he finished with an almost feral look in his eye, as if an inch away from attacking Master Faraji with the still motionless but highly dangerous sphere.

  


Meanwhile, the high grandmaster was not idle. He looked beyond the mundane world around him to view the magical currents of the world. The mages around him took on pale shades of various colors from their magical cores while the sphere in front of the more brightly silver-glowing Takashi shone brilliantly, like a small sun hovering in the room, though the sight did not burn or blind him. He saw how the power in the sphere folded inwards to almost cage itself, and that power remained that way, utterly inflexible and absolutely rigid, like a block of luminous iron floating motionless over Takashi’s palm. He then turned to the portal, ignoring the light of the rippling, folding power forming the window to study the child on the other side.

  


The boy’s core was … active. The general form looked like a brightly glowing ruby sphere, but it was riddled with what looked like roiling rivers of clean, brilliant gold, and deep inside, he could see constant movement from what looked like the flickering, dancing shadows of flames. The ephemeral dragon, however, looked like a living flame. No, actually, that didn’t quite fit. It looked like a dragon-shaped window to a vast ocean of fire. The dragon-shape glowed like a sun, just like Takashi’s sphere, making the boy’s glow seem slightly muted in comparison, as if seen through a screen. The old man watched as the shades of crimson and gold shifted and flickered around each other like tongues of flame as the rivers constantly shifted and moved in the boy’s core, casting what seemed like dancing shadows on the boy’s skin from deep inside, and briefly, he saw part of that comparably muted glow shine more brightly in the boy, matching the dragon-shaped sun in brilliance as a tongue of that light seemed to reach from somewhere deep inside the boy to lightly brush against the boy’s palms, which he had noticed earlier were torn and bloody. Those injuries faded away before his eyes as that tongue of flame traced the cuts from inside before returning to that spot deep within, returning to its muted glow as it did. The still smiling boy never noticed.

  


The high grandmaster allowed his eyes to return to the mundane world as everything seemed to lose its color and brilliance. He stared at the boy, and he noticed curiously that the dragon had now landed on the boy’s shoulder and seemed to be staring right at him. _No,_ he corrected. _At Takashi’s sphere_. The boy seemed confused at the dragon’s sudden change before he started trying to see whatever the creature was looking at. _Curious_.

  


The old man turned to the others once more, and he could practically feel the imminent violence between Takashi and Faraji. He cleared his throat. “Faraji is correct.” Everyone’s heads snapped to face him. “The boy is not simply conjuring flame. He is summoning raw, unrefined magical energy from his core.” He faced the now poleaxed Grandmaster Takashi. “He is wielding arcana.”

  


Not a sound was made at the announcement, other than the hiss and pop of Takashi’s glowing sphere of energy disappearing.

  


“Are you … sure, High Grandmaster?” Asa asked hesitantly.

  


“I am sure, Grandmaster Asa,” he confirmed.

  


Grandmaster Takashi seemed frozen, unable to respond as he tried to comprehend that his life’s work was being outpaced by a small child. He turned to gaze through the window at the boy, who was now playing with a fiery puppy, the dragon apparently having given up its vigil and changed its shape. Abruptly, Grandmaster Takashi turned on his heel and stalked out of the chamber without another word. The old man sighed sadly at seeing it.

  


“So … what do I do?” Faraji asked quietly. “No-one but Takashi really understands how to wield arcana. For god’s sake, he _founded_ that school of magic! And now I have an arcana savant as my apprentice?!”

  


“Peace, Master Faraji,” the old man calmed him. “All will be well. Have faith in magic. It brought the boy to us. It will not abandon him. Or you.”

  


“Yeah, that’s real helpful,” Faraji grumbled. “Really encouraging.”

  


“Relax, Master Faraji,” Arcelia chimed in, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Remember, you will not be training him alone. He may be your apprentice, but we will all be training him in magic alongside you. Your main responsibility is to help him grow as a person, not just as a mage.”

  


“But … but …”

  


“No buts, Master Faraji! You will be fine.” Arcelia interrupted him.

  


“Actually, that really depends,” Grandmaster Asa spoke up suddenly, making the sulking Faraji spin to face her. Or rather, he tried to. With his new limp, he almost ended up flat on his face at the move. Asa stepped within arm’s reach before he could recover, which made him freeze as if she had him at knife-point. “Tell me, Master Faraji,” she said quietly as she gently reached out and lifted a twig from the trembling man’s shoulder. “Do you plan to interfere with me and my patients again anytime soon?” Faraji’s head looked like it might fall off he shook it so hard in response. “Excellent!” she exclaimed with a bright smile, making a startled Faraji flinch. “Then you should be fine after all!” She lightly patted his cheek before almost skipping out of the chamber.

  


“That woman scares me,” Faraji muttered, staring at the now vacant entryway.

  


“We noticed,” Arcelia remarked dryly.

  


The old man snorted. _In truth, she scares me as well, sometimes._ He’d never admit that, though. “Well, Master Faraji?” he addressed the overly tall man next to him. “I believe you have an apprentice to begin training? Ideally before he burns down the meditation chamber,” he commented, looking through the scrying portal to see the young boy still playing with his magical fire.

  


Faraji’s eyes widened. “Oh crap!” he exclaimed, just realizing how long they had left the boy alone while they had been talking. He darted for the door.

  


“And you still need to change your robes, too!” Arcelia called after still mud-covered master.

  


“Gah!”

  


* * *

  


Elsewhere, in the spied-upon meditation chamber, the young boy, now dressed in neat, well-fitting crimson robes, continued playing with the fiery puppy. From time to time, he raised his left hand and gently traced the mark on his right arm, still amazed at everything that had happened. One minute, he was running for his life, and the next, he found out he had magic and he was whisked away to some weird temple to learn how to use it.

  


Except, no-one was teaching him.

  


He looked at the blazing puppy now sitting across from him. It cocked its head at him, and he giggled as he copied it. He could feel the warmth of the fire on his face, but despite being well dressed and in a warm room, he didn’t feel hot. He just felt … comfortable. He felt _right_. The puppy gave a lupine grin as he luxuriated in the feeling.

  


Without thinking, he held out his hand and felt the fire snap to form a ball in his palm. He didn’t feel concerned over the loss of the puppy, though. He could still feel the warm, playful thrumming of the fire in his hand as it resonated with the fire deep inside him. The fire may have taken a different shape, but his friend remained, just like it did when he first let the fire go before following Mister Fargee through the portal-thingy. The fire moved back inside him, but it didn’t leave just because it wasn’t out in the real world with him. It was a part of him, and it always would be. He knew it. He could feel it whispering that to him as the flame crackled and sighed. He could feel the warmth of its promise like a comforting hand on his heart, or like the hug he got from Mister Fargee.

  


Content for the first time in a long time, he began playing with the fire, passing it from hand to hand, changing it to flow down his arm and across the back of his neck like ribbons of water. He moved it to the ground and spun it around and around him in a circle as fast as he could. It moved so fast it seemed to form one solid ring around him, and then he made it one. He smiled so widely it almost hurt. He’d always been told he was good for nothing, that he couldn’t do anything right, but now he could. This felt as natural as breathing. He laughed once more in pure joy.

  


At that moment, a panting Master Faraji appeared in the doorway, dressed once more in neat burgundy robes. This time, however, they were cut differently than the ones he wore earlier. The other robes seemed more ceremonial and ornate, reaching all the way down to his ankles, but these stopped at his knees in the front and trailed halfway down his calves in the back. Underneath, he wore loose black pants tucked into boots that reached almost to his knees. The whole outfit gave the impression of being very easy to move in, and they were very similar to the crimson ensemble worn by his apprentice, though burgundy and a good deal more ornate.

  


He let his fire return inside him as Mister Fargee put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. “Are you all right, Mister Frogee?” he asked in some concern.

  


“Yeah … I’m fine … totally fine …,” Mister Frogee panted. “And it’s _Faraji_.”

  


The boy’s brow furrowed in effort. “Fr … _Fraji_.”

  


“No no no,” Mister Fraji shook his head. “Fuh-RAH-jee.”

  


“Fuh-RAH-jee.”

  


“Exactly!” Mister Fr … _Faraji_ grinned.

  


He gave a small smile in return. “So … what do we do now?” he asked tenuously. “Do we start learning magic now?!” Well, he started tenuously.

  


Mister Faraji smiled at his enthusiasm. “Soon, my young little grasshopper,” he replied in a false pompous tone. “First, I’m going to take you around and explain a bit about who all will be teaching you.”

  


“Aren’t you going to be teaching me?” the boy asked, confused.

  


“Some,” Mister Faraji replied. “But the grandmasters will be giving you more in-depth instruction in their fields. I’ll be more … rounding things out, I guess you could say.”

  


The boy cocked his head in some confusion at that.

  


“Don’t worry about it. Everything will make sense in time,” Mister Faraji assured him. “So, would you like to take a look around the monastery now?” The excited boy looked like a bobblehead he nodded so hard at that. Mister Faraji laughed at the sight. “I thought so. Well then, let’s go!”

  


The small boy scrambled after the much larger Mister Faraji as they left the chamber. Normally, he would have had some real difficulty keeping up with the tall man’s much longer strides, but for some reason, Mister Faraji was walking with a heavy limp, so he could keep up no problem. He decided not to ask.

  


They walked down a long stone hallway lined with doors. “These are meditation chambers,” Mister Faraji explained. “Every person’s quarters has its own meditation niche, but sometimes, people have some trouble with their magic and need a larger, sturdier room to try and center themselves.”

  


“What’s medunation, Mister Faraji?” the boy asked.

  


“Oh,” Faraji replied, forgetting that he would need to explain things like that. “It’s where a person let’s go of earthly distractions and tries to align their mind, body, and spirit …” He trailed off at seeing the lost expression on the boy’s face. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain more later,” he assured him.

  


After a bit more walking, they began climbing up some steps and finally emerged in the sunlight in a large open stone-floored area.

  


“This is the courtyard,” Faraji explained. “Most of the paths through the monastery cross here, so this is a good spot for you to get a look at some of your teachers.” The boy looked around at some of the people passing through, heading to and fro from the different steps, paths, and hallways surrounding the courtyard. “Oh, there’s one now,” Mister Faraji said suddenly, nudging his apprentice and pointing.

  


The man he was pointing at was dressed in black robes cut like Mister Faraji’s, but they looked finer. The man, however, was rather short, and had vivid red hair. “Who is he, Mister Faraji?”

  


“ _Master_ Faraji,” Faraji corrected absently. “That’s Kalen, Grandmaster of Weaponry.”

  


“Weaponry?” the boy asked in confusion.

  


“Well, yeah,” Mis … _Master_ Faraji replied. “What, you didn’t think you’d only be learning magic here, did you?” he asked with a teasing smile. “Your body is just as much a part of you as your mind, or you magic. If they’re not all trained together, you’ll be left out of balance. Like someone who only works out his right arm but not his left.” He finished by tilting his shoulders and tucking his left arm halfway up his sleeve, making his right arm seem ridiculously longer than his left. The boy laughed at the man’s silliness.

  


“Well, I see you’re carving a rather … unique niche as a teacher, Master Faraji,” a female voice suddenly spoke up behind them. The two males turned to find a black-robed woman with large, dark eyes and glossy black hair tied in a braid.

  


“Ah, Grandmaster Manisha!” Master Faraji greeted her, still with his lopsided appearance. “Apprentice, this is Manisha, Grandmaster of the Mind.”

  


“Pleased to meet you,” he said politely, holding out his hand to shake hers. She gave a small smile and shook the boy’s tiny hand.

  


“It is a pleasure to meet you as well.”

  


“She’ll be teaching you to how to use you mind, both in general and as a mage,” Master Faraji explained.

  


“Use my mind as a mage?” the boy asked. “What do you mean?”

  


“Oh, something like this,” the serene grandmaster replied. Suddenly, Master Faraji’s right arm reached up and smacked the man in the face. The startled master gave a yelp and fell on his butt in shock, and the boy looked in amazement from the man on the ground to the grandmaster, who was now wearing a small, mischievous smile. “You left your mind unguarded again, Master Faraji.” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly, though her small smile remained.

  


Master Faraji grumbled darkly under his breath as he picked himself off the ground. “I’ll remember to keep my barriers up one of these days,” he muttered.

  


“We’ll see,” Grandmaster Manisha replied. “Gentlemen,” she nodded to them both politely and continued on her way, once more with a tranquil expression on her face.

  


“You’d do well to pay attention in her lessons,” Faraji told the young boy, still staring after the almost gliding grandmaster. “And to always remember to keep your damn barriers up,” he added, rubbing his cheek gingerly. The boy nodded fervently at that, having no desire to get slapped by his own hand.

  


“And let’s see … Oh, there’s Grandmaster Virgil,” Faraji pointed out as an albino man entered the courtyard, moving his hand as if tracing invisible threads through the air. “He’s the Grandmaster of Spirit, and he’s … odd. To say the least,” Master Faraji explained, and the boy felt inclined to agree. The man looked almost … ghostly, as if his pale, almost translucent skin were made of paper, and his cloudy pink eyes seemed almost blind, and yet that didn’t stop them from roving over something that only they seemed to see. All the while, his mouth moved as if engaged in a quiet conversation with his shadow.

  


“The high grandmaster says Virgil is simply _‘a bit disconnected with the mundane world, delving too deeply into the river of spirit and fate_ ,’ or something like that _,_ ” Faraji explained, taking on a ridiculous affectation of great wisdom when impersonating the high grandmaster. “Me? I think he’s just nuts,” he continued, reverting back to his normal tone. “For instance,” he turned to the slightly twitching grandmaster crossing the courtyard, who was still ignoring everyone else. “Virgil!” he called out. “How’s this weather we’re having?”

  


“Rain falls in the sunshine, and it brings the shadow of the future with it. The rain has stopped, but it will start again, and all the world will be shaken by the storm, but will it rain fire or blood? Will we be the roof, or the clouds? Or are we the raindrops? The rain will begin once more, and when it ends, we will know.” The pale man said all of this in an absent, raspy tone of voice, and throughout the whole thing, he never stopped walking and never once looked at them, continuing to thread his hands and scan his eyes over objects unseen. The Grandmaster of Spirit left the courtyard without another word, and Master Faraji raised his hands in an expression that said ‘I rest my case.’

  


“Um …,” the boy began, uncertain how to respond.

  


“The standard response to an encounter with Virgil is, ‘… anyways …,’” Faraji helpfully supplied.

  


“I’ll … um … remember that,” the boy replied. “So, he’ll be … teaching me?” he asked in some concern.

  


“Yep!” Faraji answered cheerfully. “Good luck,” he laughed. “Though, he actually focuses somewhat when teaching. In fact, it’s about the only time he _does_ focus. That makes him a bit easier to understand, but still just a bit, so … yeah, good luck.” The boy did not find this encouraging.

  


“Alright then, let’s see who else we can find …,” Master Faraji continued, peering around the courtyard. “Hmmm … Oh, there we go!” he said happily as two men wearing black robes strode into the courtyard talking animatedly with each other. “Those are Grandmaster Feng,” indicating the shorter, stockier Chinese man with buzzed short hair, “and Grandmaster Tatsuo,” pointing at the taller, lankier Japanese man with longer, but still short, black hair. “Those are the Grandmasters of Martial Arts.”

  


“Both of them?” the boy asked curiously.

  


“Well … kind of,” Faraji answered. “Technically, only one of them’s the official grandmaster, but those two idiots have been bouncing the title back and forth between them for almost 12 years now. At this point, almost no-one even bothers trying to remember who’s actually the official Grandmaster of Martial Arts anymore. But hey, we get an annual grudge match between those two, so that’s always fun. Add in some drinks and a few wagers, and it’s practically a party! And last year’s? Whoo! Now that one was practically legendary! I swear, even Manisha was about a shot away from dancing on a table! And if we’d had a lamp shade, Cyrus would have probably been wearing it he was so drunk by the end!”

  


“… Oh,” the boy replied. Master Faraji froze a bit at realizing that he maybe shouldn’t have said all of that to a small child.

  


“A-a-anyway, we should probably move on. Lot’s of training to do and all that,” he said rapidly.

  


“Are those all of the grandmasters?” the boy asked.

  


“Well, uh, no, but that’s okay. You can meet the rest later. Shall we?” Faraji began striding off almost before finishing, leaving his apprentice to scramble to catch up while listening to his teacher mutter “stupid, stupid, stupid” under his breath.

  


“Uh, Master Faraji, who’s that?” he asked at seeing a rather unique-looking person in black robes begin crossing the courtyard.

  


“Hm?” Master Faraji turned to look at who the boy was talking about, and he gave a noticeable shiver when he found it. “Oh … um, that’s … Tasya … Grandmaster of Runes.” The title suited the woman in question, who had strange symbols trailing across virtually every inch of exposed skin. Even her head, which had been shaved smooth, featured more of the odd runic marks running across her scalp. However, it somehow wasn’t the tattoos covering her that drew attention, or even her baldness. It was her eyes. They were a cold, stone-hard blue that seemed to stare out of dark tunnels to pierce anything that crossed their gaze. Faraji shivered once more as they passed over him, but the boy simply looked at her. “You should know that she … doesn’t really talk much.” The boy was confused at the remark until he noticed her throat. Half-buried under the patterns of runes on her neck was a large, ugly scar stretching from one side of her throat to the other in a twisted mockery of a smile, which looked like the only smile those cold, expressionless features were capable of making.

  


“Will I be learning from her, too?” the boy quietly asked the stock-still man at his side.

  


The man swallowed. “Yes, you will.”

  


The boy nodded, and without another word, he began walking towards the strange woman, ignoring the strangled sound coming from the still frozen man behind them. The woman watched him coming, giving the impression of a lioness watching a gazelle creeping towards the den, and when he reached her, she stopped. Not a word was spoken as the boy looked up into her frozen eyes, and those unblinking eyes pierced right back through his own. For a moment, everything was still, and utterly silent, like the moment before a hunter strikes.

  


But only for a moment.

  


“Hello, Grandmaster Tasya,” the boy said. “I’m Master Faraji’s apprentice,” he pointed back towards the now bug-eyed man still standing where he had left him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand with a warm smile on his face.

  


The woman stared at the boy, and though her blank expression never changed, she somehow gave the impression of surprise. She looked over at the sweating Master Faraji, then back at the innocent young boy in front of her, and then down at his outstretched hand. For a moment, it seemed that she would simply walk away, but instead, she hesitantly extended her own scarred, tattooed hand and clasped the boy’s, awkwardly shaking it as if the action were completely foreign to her. The boy noticed that her hand wasn’t cold the way her eyes were. It was warm. He smiled even more brightly at her, and just for an instant, her eyes seemed a little less cold, and he could have sworn that the corners of her lips twitched in the beginnings of the long-forgotten act of smiling.

  


However, the moment lasted only for a heartbeat before she withdrew her hand and her face was stone once more. She gave the boy a small nod and continued on her way. He looked after her before turning and walking back to Master Faraji, who seemed in the middle of a compelling fish impersonation.

  


“What?” he asked the man.

  


Faraji’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly as he tried and failed to speak, but eventually he just shook his head and kept walking, his strange young apprentice at his side.

  


“Faraji!”

  


“Oh, now what?” the now frazzled Master Faraji asked of no-one while turning back to see who had shouted at him. To say he was surprised by who it was would be an understatement.

  


Across the courtyard strode Grandmaster Takashi, who walked right up to them and stopped. No-one said a word, as Faraji seemed too dumbfounded to speak and the boy was too confused. Takashi, meanwhile, stared hard at the boy for a time, who, uncertain what was going on, stared back.

  


Nobody moved while this impromptu stare-down went on, but finally, whatever Takashi had been searching for in the young boy’s eyes, he seemed to find it. He gave a firm yet reluctant nod and turned to face Master Faraji, who by now seemed utterly baffled.

  


“Tomorrow morning. 6:00 a.m. My quarters. Drop off the boy and leave.” He started to walk away and paused. “I will not allow you to ruin this monastery’s first arcana savant,” he added harshly without turning to look at the man. He strode off without another word.

  


The poor boy had absolutely no idea what was going on, but when he turned to Master Faraji for an explanation, he found a look on the man’s face that said he didn’t understand either. He decided to ask anyway. “M-Master Faraji?”

  


“Uh huh?” Faraji replied, still staring poleaxed after the retreating grandmaster.

  


“What just happened?”

  


Faraji blinked for a bit. “I think … he just agreed to train you,” he finally answered, seeming not to believe the words coming out of his mouth.

  


“Is that … a good thing?” the boy asked, still lost.

  


“I … think so,” Faraji replied, now seeming to search the sky for flying pigs.

  


“Oh,” the boy said simply, still slightly confused, but able to tell that Master Faraji was in no state to explain it at the moment. “Should we … keep going, then?”

  


“Yeah,” Faraji answered absently before turning and continuing to walk, now seeming too distracted to pay attention to where he was going. The boy dutifully followed.

  


After a time, Faraji finally seemed to come back to reality, and he turned to the small boy at his side as they walked. “You’re not going to make this whole apprentice business easy on me, are you?” he finally asked.

  


The boy didn’t quite know what the man was talking about, but even so, he knew the answer to that. “No,” he said simply.

  


Master Faraji snorted in resignation, and the two of them walked on.

  


* * *

  


**Four years later**

  


Sweat poured down the boy’s face as he stared down his opponent. Blood pumped so loudly in his ears that it almost drowned out the hollers and bellows from the crowd. Each rasping breath seemed like it was dragging sandpaper across the inside of his throat on its way, but in spite of it all, he still couldn’t lose the wolf-like grin on his face. The thrill of the fight ran through his veins even more thickly than blood. He was having the time of his life.

  


And he was so frustrated he could scream.

  


“Well? Are you going to hit me, or are you going to keep on with your statue impersonation? I think I see some pigeons looking to start roosting on you.”

  


He grit his teeth through his grin at the taunt. He reached out to his power, let its heat fill his body like a desert sun on his skin, and he moved. He darted forward, gathering that power into his left palm as he launched it at his smirking master. Faraji sidestepped the ball of fire, but that was the boy’s plan. With a shout, he closed, striking hard and fast, throwing fists and elbows and kicks, and Faraji danced away, giving each limb a glancing blow that knocked it just off course enough to miss him. The boy channeled his power into his fist, sending sparks flickering across the wrinkles of his sleeve as he struck at the man’s sternum. Faraji leaned aside from the electrified blow and found the boy’s other hand reaching out with a glowing sphere of energy about to strike. Faraji put up his own glowing hands, spinning as he used his own power to deflect the attack, which careened off into the sky.

  


Briefly.

  


Faraji continued his spin, wrenching his hands around as he did, and suddenly, the projectile darted back towards the boy who cast it, who now had to deflect his own attack, smacking it into the ground with his palm and making it carve a deep trench in the gray stone before fizzling out. However, the sudden shift in focus put him on the defensive. Now he was the one dodging Faraji’s flurry of strikes. Rather than simply block them, however, he did as Faraji did and deflected them, swaying out of their way or smacking them aside just enough to make them miss, but not trying to cancel out the bull-strong man’s entire blow. He tried to turn this to his advantage, grabbing the striking limbs and wrenching them past him, not just away from him, forcing his master off balance from the over-extending strikes as he reached out to try and strike back in return, but Faraji had too much reach. Though the boy had grown a great deal over the years, Faraji was still practically a giant compared to him. When the man threw a punch, his arm extended farther. When he stepped back from the boy’s own strikes, he covered more ground, forcing the boy the struggle to keep him in range. It wasn’t enough. Every time he knocked aside a punch or stepped inside a kick, he created an opening that he just couldn’t take advantage of before the tall man covered it again. The boy leaned aside from a magically charged punch, hearing the sweat on his face sizzle from the energy as he struck at the man’s elbow, trying to keep him off balance while he considered his options.

  


He needed something to level the playing field.

  


He reached out with his mind, hammering against the mental shields that the man _of course_ finally remembered to keep up, and suddenly, the battle was being fought on two fronts. Faraji stepped forward, trying to batter the boy to the ground with the massive edge he held in size and strength, and the boy dodged, utilizing his edge in speed and agility, and all the while, it felt like they were wrestling in their minds as they struck back and forth at each other’s barriers. On that playing field, Faraji may not have had an edge in strength, but he did have more experience. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to breach the man’s mind, just keep his master’s focus split while he regained control of the spar. He launched himself at his master once again. He leaned under punches and swayed away from kicks as he closed the distance. Faraji tried to backpedal to keep out of the boy’s range, but it wasn’t enough. His physical blows failing him and their mental battle stalemating, the man reached for magic to even the score.

  


Wind ripped around the embattled pair as the boy was suddenly under attack from what felt like a dozen fists and a score of kicks. Balls of light launched themselves from his master’s hands and flung themselves at the boy. He reached out to his own power, felt his master’s magic in the air around him resonate with his own. He struck back. He knocked the ephemeral blows aside with strikes of his own, or else swayed away from attacks that he didn’t need his eyes to know were coming. He felt them approach like ripples from a thrown pebble in a smooth lake. He flipped and spun away from those ripples like a leaf dancing in the breeze.

  


And then he struck out at Faraji with his own attacks.

  


Once again, the tall man was put on the defensive as he was pelted by the boy’s power. Like his apprentice, he ducked and swayed away from many of them, but with his huge size and without the boy’s agility, he was force to block or deflect most of the attacks, and all the while, their struggle on the mental plane continued unabated, with the boy redoubling his mental efforts to match his magical fury.

  


And then he closed. But unlike before, he didn’t rely purely on his physical strength. Instead, he immersed himself in the fire flowing through his veins, and he channeled that power into his muscles, utilizing the latest technique he had been developing with Grandmaster Takashi, though pointedly ignoring the order not to use it in a fight yet. He was using it against Faraji, after all. Takashi would appreciate that. His muscles tightened and groaned as magic pumped through them, and the world around him seemed to slow just a fraction as he accelerated his body beyond his normal physical limits. He felt his bones creak as he moved, felt his flesh wail as it was put under literally inhuman stress, but he ignored it all. His feet pounded against the stone floor as he hurled himself at his master in a desperate attempt to finish the fight once and for all.

  


He reached Faraji, launching blow after blow at the dark-skinned mage, and suddenly, Faraji couldn’t block them all. His fist would be caught in the man’s palm, but rather than stopping, it pushed through, knocking aside his master’s defense to strike the man behind it with inhuman force. His kick would be smacked by the man’s hand to knock it off course, but instead, it carried on to ram into the man’s ribs like a sledgehammer. Master Faraji was forced back. He upped his mental attacks, forcing the fight to carry on solely at the older man’s barrier. Faraji began trying to dodge the boy’s lightning-fast physical blows, so he alternated with magical strikes, launching balls of light in between his punches and kicks. Faraji would deflect a glowing sphere of energy only to feel a tiny fist ram into his sternum. He’d dodge out of the way of a kick only to feel a bolt of magic hammer into his stomach. The man continued to be forced back.

  


The boy grinned triumphantly. He was going to win! He pushed through the pain of his pleading body and upped the intensity even further. Each of his muscles felt like they were trying to tear free of his bones, but he didn’t care. Even more of his blows struck through his master’s defense. He felt a throbbing headache building from the scale of his attacks on his master’s mind, but he ignored that, too, continuing to furiously attack the man in both body and mind. He felt exhaustion begin settling deep inside his bones as he hurled attack after attack with his magic, but he refused to let up. He was too close to victory. He couldn’t stop now. He wouldn’t! He continued to force his master back.

  


Suddenly, his master rippled and disappeared. The boy’s eyes widened as his arm kept extending, the torso it was about to connect with simply not there anymore. He cried out as the back of his neck exploded in pain from what felt like a monstrous blow, and suddenly his balance, already compromised by his over-extended punch, was utterly gone. His eyes seemed filled with stars from the blow, but he knew what they’d see if they could.

  


The stone floor racing to meet him.

  


He felt his nose crunch as the floor introduced itself to his face. His head bounced off the floor from the force at which they connected before settling back on the cold, gritty stone. His ears rang and his body felt a mile away as he tried to collect himself. Of course, he wasn’t exactly grateful when his body seemed to make a reappearance. His muscles screamed as if he had been carrying stones for hours. Big ones. He bones even felt bruised from the strain, and that was nothing on what the back of his neck felt like. The stabbing pains radiating across his face from his broken nose were just the icing on the cake. Gradually, his eyesight decided to end its holiday and return, and once the room stopped spinning, he groaned in more than just pain.

  


He was out of the ring.

  


He had been so intent on overwhelming his teacher’s defenses that he didn’t notice that the man was letting him drive them both right to the edge of the ring. When he suddenly disappeared, he left his apprentice teetering right on the edge of a ring-out. Then he gave the boy a little nudge in the form of a hammer-blow to the back of his neck.

  


He heard the scuff of boots on stone behind him, and he agonizingly flopped onto his back and peered through his bleary, pain-fogged eyes to see the blurry shape of his damn master smiling smugly down at him. He laid his head back on the stone floor, tasting the blood pouring down his face from his aching, broken nose. With a roar, the ringing in his ears faded and sound returned, mainly in the form of shouts of victory and groans of defeat from the betting masters and grandmasters all around them. He turned his head to see gloating mages holding their hands out to sulking bettors handing over fistfuls of coins.

  


“Oh, don’t worry kid,” Faraji called down to the defeated apprentice. “You’ll win one day!” He swaggered away as the boy tried to soothe what felt like a giant bruise for a body.

  


“Go break a hip, old man!” he called after him to laughs and cheers from the slowly dissipating crowd. He sighed as he lay on the stone floor, feeling the warmth of his magic slowly spread throughout his body once again, steadily soothing his tortured flesh. It was kind of weird how he was feeling about his loss. On the one hand, he was disappointed beyond belief that his best still wasn’t enough to win a bout against his master. On the other hand, he felt strangely proud. His master was incredible! He let him think he had the advantage, that he had his master on the ropes, and all along it was a trap! He couldn’t believe he thought he was actually overpowering the man, when with every step, he was actually just being lured closer and closer to his own defeat. Master Faraji was brilliant! And after it was all said and done, his master didn’t even look winded! He looked like he could have been out for a midday stroll, while he, by contrast, felt like he’d been forced through a meat grinder. He felt his broken, bloody nose pop back into shape as his magic traced it inside his body, flooding his face with the always-welcome noonday warmth of his magic under his skin. He gave a rueful chuckle. He never really had a chance in the match after all. But that really shouldn’t have been a surprise. He felt a slow smile spread across his face as the fire burned even more hotly in his veins. _I’m gonna have to get a lot better before I can stand a chance against Master Faraji,_ he concluded. He couldn’t wait to get started.

  


* * *

  


Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the newly resolve-filled young apprentice on the floor, one of the assembled grandmasters had a very different interpretation of the fight. The man looked at the inexplicably smiling boy now somehow managing to struggle to his feet, apparently completely ignoring the fact that anyone else would have been unconscious from the blow that he took, and they would have been bedridden for at least days afterward on top of that. Instead, this young man took up a ready stance and began moving through his katas, rolling a ball of fire down his limbs as he did, training both his body and his magic at the same time. The watching grandmaster shook his head in amused exasperation at the boy’s endurance and determination. Any other mage his age who threw around that kind of power would have been mentally and magically drained, but he simply got up and kept on training.

  


Looking around, the grandmaster decided to see where the “victor” had run off to, though “stumbled” would probably be more accurate to the grandmaster’s trained eyes. The good news was that, given how he looked at the end of the match, he probably wouldn’t have to range too far to find him. The man had looked like his knees were going to give out halfway across the ring. Sure enough, he opened one of the chambers in a short hallway just off the arena yard and found his target. And what a dignified sight it was, too.

  


Master Faraji lay flat on his back on the dirty stone floor, breathing like he had just been rescued from drowning, and his dark robes were soaked with enough sweat to further that illusion. He noticed that Faraji had unlaced his shirt down to his navel to try and cool off, and his entire torso looked like a patchwork of bruises.

  


The gasping master on the floor finally noticed his visitor. “I think … I might … need Asa,” he panted.

  


The grandmaster in the doorway snorted at that. “You don’t need a healer. You need a mortician.”

  


“Ha … ha,” the breathless Faraji replied. “Very … funny … Feng.”

  


Grandmaster Feng grinned. “I try.” He shut the door to the chamber as Faraji struggled to a seated position. It looked really hard. “That kid almost had you a few times, you know,” he commented as Faraji finally started to catch his breath.

  


Faraji snorted. “Believe me, I know.” He groaned and clutched at his ribs. “That little bastard’s an absolute monster.”

  


Feng agreed. “Did you know he’s already out there training again?”

  


Faraji gave a groan of despair and fell onto his side. “Doesn’t he ever quit? I hit him as hard as I could back there. He shouldn’t even be standing!”

  


“Apparently, he disagrees,” Feng commented dryly. “He was throwing some impressive power around out there. I’ve never seen a boy that young go toe to toe with a master and be able to match him in magical strength, let alone nearly overpower him like that.”

  


“You’re telling me,” the exhausted Faraji grumbled. “Little bastard was even attacking my mind at the same time. I’ve no idea where he gets the energy.”

  


Grandmaster Feng nodded. “I thought it looked like that was happening. That’s … impressive for someone his age. Most adult mages struggle to split their focus enough to fight on two fronts like that, let alone a child.”

  


“Well, what do you expect from Manisha’s golden pupil?” Faraji asked with a rueful chuckle. “If he wasn’t already identified as a savant in arcana, she’d be naming him one in the mind arts.”

  


Feng shrugged. “Maybe he’s both. We’ve never seen someone who was a savant in more than one field before, but we’ve also never seen anyone quite like your apprentice before, either. I’ve even heard similar whispers from some of the grandmasters of other fields. Hell, I’m almost tempted to name him one in martial arts, too. He never makes the same mistake twice, and he only needs to see something once to learn it perfectly. I’ve never had a pupil quite like him.”

  


Faraji whined in exasperation. “Oh, not you too. It’s already a nightmare for me to keep the boy clueless about his talent. I don’t need you piling on, too!”

  


Feng chuckled. “Is that what was with the whole, ‘You’ll win one day!’ thing? Because we both know that if you hadn’t panicked and Shifted away from the boy when you did, he would have sent you right out of that ring before you even knew what had happened. You had no idea you were even at the edge, did you?”

  


“What, are you kidding me? Of course I didn’t!” Faraji answered shamelessly. “The way that kid was battering me, I couldn’t have even told you my name out there! But hey, it worked out.”

  


“Yes, lucky you,” Feng replied with an amused smile.

  


“Yep, lucky me!” Faraji said brightly. “And hey, it kept that kid ignorant of his talent for a little bit longer, so double win!”

  


Feng nodded. “I agree. As long as he’s kept in the dark about his unnatural skill, he will continue to try and push his limits, not knowing he has already passed everyone else’s. And if he does, who knows what his true potential will eventually be? You were wise to try and keep him ignorant.”

  


“Well, actually, I was more worried about him becoming an arrogant asshole if he knew how good he was, but yeah, that whole potential bit sounds good too,” Faraji replied flippantly. Feng laughed.

  


“So, exactly how long do you plan to hide in here?” Feng asked the man still seated on the dusty floor.

  


“Oh, just till my legs work again,” he answered, kneading tenderly at his knees.

  


“But if you hide in here for a month, don’t you think your apprentice will eventually start wondering where you are?” Feng asked with a smile.

  


“Ha ha,” Faraji retorted with a mild glare.

  


Feng sighed. “Here,” he said, kneeling in front on battered man and reaching out with his power. Asa may have been the undisputed expert at healing, but Feng was no slouch himself. Faraji gave a sharp groan as his injuries briefly flared with pain before fading away.

  


“There. That should at least get you off the floor,” Feng told him. “After all, if the boy were to come in here and find you like this, I think he might start putting two and two together.”

  


Faraji grunted as he hauled himself to his feet, still exhausted and feeling slightly battered, but at least he was mobile. He took a step towards the door and almost returned to the floor as his knee nearly buckled.

  


Alright, so he was semi-mobile.

  


However, he straightened his leg and caught himself, and then began carefully stepping towards the door as if walking on glass.

  


“Ah yes, good as new,” Grandmaster Feng commented snarkily. “The boy will never suspect a thing!”

  


Faraji decided he was too mature to say anything in return, so he simply responded with a rude gesture. Feng laughed and opened the door for the hobbling mentor. Upon reaching the door, however, Faraji paused for a moment and seemed to dig deep into his reserves of strength, straightening his back and raising his chin. He strode through the door as if going for a stroll. Feng was impressed. At least, he was until Faraji nearly tripped over his own feet. Rolling his eyes, Feng shut the door and followed the re-recomposed master.

  


They entered the training ring to see the boy still running through his katas, only now he was rolling three balls of fire down and around his limbs all the while, making them pass each other without touching. Grandmaster Feng saw Faraji’s shoulders slump in despair at seeing how recovered his apprentice seemed to be already. He chuckled at the sight. He loved teaching the boy, but he didn’t envy his friend’s role as his master. Quite frankly, it looked exhausting.

  


“Well, you seem to have everything covered here, so I’ll be on my way,” Feng announced. He turned to leave and paused. “Just, don’t push the boy _too_ hard today. After all, he’s just an apprentice. He doesn’t have your power and stamina yet,” he said loudly. Faraji glared at the grandmaster now struggling to keep a straight face.

  


However, just as Faraji seemed about to (quietly) retort, he was interrupted by a loud screech in the sky above them. Everyone there looked up at the sound and, to their surprise, saw what looked like a feathery meteor hurtling towards them. Just when Feng was about to reach out with magic to grab it, however, the spinning mass managed to catch itself with its wings, bringing it gliding to the stone floor of the arena, where it finally slid to a stop in front of the now baffled apprentice.

  


Alarmed and confused, Feng and Faraji both stepped closer to the unidentified flying avian. Looking down at the slightly twitching mass, Feng was surprised to see that it was an owl of all things, though he had no idea what something like that was doing this high up in the mountains. However, it was clear that, whyever it had come, it was not an easy journey. The bird looked a mottled mix of half plucked and half frozen, and it was twitching worse than someone who had just tried Grandmaster Cyrus’ cooking.

  


Curiously, he noticed that the bird had a letter tied to its leg, and given how it had honed in on the boy, he assumed it was for him, though he had no idea who would have sent something like this, or why they would have used an owl of all things.

  


The boy seemed to notice the letter as well. Crouching down, he untied the ice-covered string binding it to the quivering bag of feathers on the ground.

  


“Do you know what this is about?” Faraji asked his apprentice curiously.

  


“Not a clue,” the perplexed boy replied. Straightening, he studied the envelope in his hands. Feng noticed it was made of parchment, and it had some seal in red wax that he couldn’t quite make out. However, it was the address written on the letter’s face that drew his attention. Or rather, the lack of one.

  


Where there should have been lines indicating where the letter was to be sent, such as the city or street, the letter instead had merely scribbles, as if someone had lost control of their pen when writing those details and decided to leave it. However, one line was written very clearly.

  


“ _Mr. Harry Potter,_ ” the boy read aloud. He blinked at the letter in his hands before he looked up at them both in confusion. “Who’s Harry Potter?”


	4. The Ballad of Alfie Miller

_Oh, the chaos one letter can inspire_ , a tired old man thought as he massaged his temples and desperately tried to tune out the rampant shouting echoing throughout the chamber.

  


He was remarkably unsuccessful.

  


“I cannot believe we are even discussing this!” the normally serene Grandmaster Manisha cried out in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “An overgrown pigeon shows up with some note, and suddenly we are actually considering sending my apprentice off to magic knows where?!” Her dark eyes seemed to flare with rage at the very notion as she glared at the high grandmaster. _Oh, sure, blame me. That’s entirely fair._

  


“Uh,” Master Faraji eloquently interjected from where he stood with his hand on the shoulder of the boy in question. “Technically, he is _my_ apprentice, Manisha.”

  


Manisha ignored the feeble complaint. “So what if some other group wants to teach him? We claimed him first, and he is excelling here! And now you propose to simply loan him out at the first request? My apprentice is not a sweater!”

  


“Still my apprentice, Manisha.” _Yes, please keep provoking her, Master Faraji. That can only help._

  


“He has worked too long and too hard to deserve to just be cast aside like yesterday’s trash. And I absolutely will not allow some backwater mages to ruin my apprentice’s potential just so they can teach him a few parlor tricks!”

  


“Manisha! Seriously! He’s my apprentice! Get your own!”

  


“Oh, let it go, Far,” Asa responded for the still-fuming Manisha. “No-one’s listening to you anyways.”

  


“Big surprise,” Faraji mumbled with a pout.

  


“I must agree with Grandmaster Manisha,” Takeshi joined in. “If not about the part where he is _her_ apprentice.” He placed a hand possessively on the boy’s other shoulder while shooting Manisha a dirty look, which she returned in kind. “Nevertheless, he _is_ a part of this monastery. This other school has no claim over him, and even if they did, it would hardly matter. By now, he wouldn’t even be capable of learning their magic anyway.” Grandmaster Takashi finished speaking with a satisfied look on his face, sure that his point would close this conversation.

  


That wasn’t exactly an unreasonable expectation. A child’s magical core went through a great deal of development throughout their formative years, and by a certain age, this left a child very well suited to certain styles of magic, but largely incapable of using others. Not a single member of this monastery would manage anything more than a few sparks with a wand, just as few wand-wielders would be capable of replicating any of their own talents. _But of course, nothing is ever so simple when this one is concerned, is it?_

  


He gave up on his headache and spoke aloud for the first time. “He can use their magic.”

  


Dead silence greeted his comment. _Hmm. Maybe I should have started with that_ , he pondered in amusement.

  


“He what?” Grandmaster Takashi asked quietly as he tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder, suddenly far less sure of his position.

  


The old man’s eyes flared with light as he gazed on the boy’s utterly strange core once more. “His core retains the ability to learn wand-based magic.” _Among other things_ , he noted dryly as his eyes lost their mystical sheen and his vision returned to the mundane. He shook his head and chuckled with amusement as the boy yet again simply ignored the proven rules of what should be possible, and as always, without the slightest inkling he had done so. He almost laughed outright as Master Faraji slumped in exasperation and exhaustion, clearly noting that very same trend.

  


Grandmaster Takashi, by contrast, seemed determined to match Grandmaster Manisha in fury. “So what?” Takashi snapped. “He may be able to use their magic, but that doesn’t mean he is one of them. It doesn’t even mean he _should_ be one of them. His place is here. His teachers are here! _We_ are here! His path! Is! Here!”

  


“What he said!” Faraji chimed in cheerfully.

  


Grandmaster Takashi shut his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. “Yes, thank you for that … _stirring_ display of support, Master Faraji.”

  


“You are mistaken,” a whispery voice suddenly spoke up from the back of the room. The assembled mages stepped aside as it did, revealing Grandmaster Virgil staring at the boy in question. And beyond. _Yes, please join in, Virgil. Things were almost getting boring around here, and magic knows we can’t have that!_

  


“What do you mean?” Grandmaster Takashi demanded.

  


The Grandmaster of Spirit never turned from the boy, but he answered all the same. “His path lies far beyond these walls. We are a stepping stone, one of many. He must set forth and seek another stone so that he may begin his trials in earnest. He must prepare to embrace his mantle before all is lost in darkness’ shroud. It is time.” With that, he once again turned and walked away.

  


The room grew silent once more, as no-one quite seemed to know how to respond this odd proclamation, though Master Faraji certainly gave it his best effort. “Thank you, Grandmaster Virgil, for more of your drive-by weirdness,” Faraji called after him. “I don’t know how we’d manage without you.”

  


“Rather boringly, I’d imagine,” Grandmaster Feng spoke up. _Exactly my point._

  


“So that’s it?” Grandmaster Takashi snarled, turning on Faraji. “A couple of lame jokes are all you have? He is officially _your_ apprentice, as you seem so fond of pointing out. And now that there’s talk of sending him away, you stand there like even more of a useless lump than usual. Do you truly have nothing to say about this?!”

  


“At the moment, no,” Master Faraji replied blandly, which took everyone aback, especially Takashi. “So far, this conversation has really just been a waste of words. This other school wants him? Fine. We don’t want him to go? Great. The Grandmaster of Loony Statements claims it’s his destiny to go or some such crap? Whatever. Until someone actually wants to ask the kid what _he_ wants to do, all of this is pointless. At the end of the day, his opinion is the only thing that matters in this.”

  


A number of the assembled grandmasters blinked at that, realizing that they had yet to even ask the boy about his feelings on all of this. The more observant ones noticed that he hadn’t even spoken this entire time. As all of this chaos raged around him, the boy never even stirred. He simply continued to stare at the letter in his hands while mouthing the strange name that had apparently once been his, all the while with an unreadable look on his face.

  


Everyone remained quiet as Master Faraji knelt in front of the boy and gently lowered the letter in his hands, forcing the boy to raise his eyes for the first time. “Hey, kid,” he said quietly.

  


The boy’s reply sounded almost as distant as Grandmaster Virgil. “Hey, Far.”

  


The dark-skinned master gave the boy a gentle smile. “Did you catch any of this?”

  


The boy nodded slowly. “A bit. I never knew Grandmaster Manisha could yell like that.” Manisha blushed furiously in embarrassment as a number of people chuckled. _Sadly, this is not exactly a revelation for all of us_ , the old man thought with chagrin.

  


Faraji grinned a bit at the boy’s comment before his expression turned somber once more. “So how do you feel about all this? What are you thinking?”

  


The boy’s eyes dropped to the letter in his hands once more. “I … don’t know. This whole thing is … it’s weird. I’m guessing this is where I would have gone if things had … gone differently. I would have been a different person, with a different name, learning a different type of magic. It’s strange.”

  


Faraji nodded, but didn’t say anything, allowing the boy to continue.

  


“I’m … curious,” the boy continued, his brow furrowed in thought. “What kind of mage would I have been if I had gone there? What would I have learned? Would I have been stronger than I am now?” He turned to the high grandmaster. “Is their magic any good?”

  


The old man snorted at the question. “Like all styles of magic, it has its strengths, and it has its weaknesses. There are things they can do that we cannot, just as there are things we can do that they cannot.”

  


The boy’s eyes shined at that. “But I can? I can learn to do the things they can do that we normally can’t?”

  


_Always determined to improve yourself, aren’t you?_ “Yes, you can.” The boy smiled brightly at that.

  
Faraji spoke up once more. “So you’re decided? You want to go?”

  


The boy thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “No. I don’t want to go. I want to stay. I want to keep learning all you have to teach me. I want to help Takashi develop new techniques for arcana.” Takashi took on a small, proud smile at that. “I want to see how much I can nettle Grandmaster Cyrus before he snaps and just starts chucking lightning bolts at everything that moves.”

  


“I _knew_ it!” Cyrus exclaimed, to much laughter.

  


The boy smiled as he continued. “I want to see if I can get Grandmaster Manisha to yell like that again.”

  


“Don’t count on it,” Manisha replied serenely, having regained her poise. _Mm-hmm. You keep telling yourself that, Manisha._

  


The boy turned to another member of the crowd. “I want to see if I can finally get Grandmaster Tasya to smile.”

  


The tattooed woman shook her head at that, but her cold eyes almost seemed to flash with warmth.

  


The boy grinned at her. “And I want to see if Grandmaster Adriane will finally try to strangle her sister, or whether Grandmaster Rilla will be the one to snap first.” Several of the assembled masters laughed at that, though the sisters in question looked a bit less than pleased. _Personally, my money’s on Adriane,_ the old man thought. _Kalen even gave me some pretty good odds._

  


“But,” the boy continued, slowly growing serious, “I want to learn this new magic even more.”

  


Faraji nodded understandingly. “I get it. It’s a part of your heritage. Of course you want to learn about it.”

  


“Huh?” The boy looked confused at that. “No, I just need to find an edge so I can actually stand a chance against you when we spar.” Strangely enough, this comment was followed by an odd coughing fit overtaking several of those around them, the old man included. Grandmaster Feng seemed to catch the worst of it, though, and he had to leave the chamber shaking like a leaf.

  


“Is he alright?” the boy asked in concern as a loud braying noise that sounded almost like hysterical laughter echoed back into the chamber from the hallway Feng had fled through. _Smooth, Feng. Very smooth._

  


“For the moment,” Master Faraji muttered while glaring at the entryway.

  


Even the high grandmaster had to struggle to compose himself before continuing. “So, you have made your decision? You wish to attend this school?”

  


The boy gave a resolute nod. “I do.”

  


The old man nodded in return. “Then I officially name this your first trial. You will join their world and learn all you can. When you return, we will judge your success and continue your training.”

  


“I won’t let you down,” the boy said resolutely. The old man smiled at that. _As if there was ever any doubt._

  


Faraji clapped the boy on the shoulder. “I guess we’d better get our stuff together, shouldn’t we? If we hurry, we should be able to make it out of here before dinner.”

  


The high grandmaster cleared his throat. “You will not be going, Master Faraji.”

  


Faraji paused at those words. “I’m sorry, I think I must have caught that in my crazy ear. Do you mind repeating it in the one that makes sense?”

  


“This is your apprentice’s trial,” he explained. “It calls for him to grow not only as a mage, but as a person as well. He cannot accomplish this with his master at his side, no matter how much you might wish to be there. You must stay and allow him to go forth alone.”

  


The master and apprentice looked at each other before Master Faraji turned back to the high grandmaster. “But I don’t wanna.”

  


The old man rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Tough, Master Faraji.”

  


The dark-skinned mage looked like he had another retort to make, likely just as eloquent and mature as the last, but his apprentice gently grabbed his arm to stop him. “It’s alright, Far. If this is my trial, then this is simply how it has to be.”

  


Faraji opened his mouth to argue, but relented as he saw the determined expression on the boy’s face. “Hey, aren’t I supposed to be the mature one in this relationship?” he complained instead.

  


Loud, hysterical laughter greeted this statement, but it was the source of this laughter that was truly shocking. Everyone stared in stunned silence as the ever-serious Takashi doubled over with tears streaming down his face as loud guffaws continued to burst free.

  


“Did … did you know that Takashi could laugh?” the boy asked his master in wonder.

  


“Are you kidding me?” Faraji replied in amazement as Takashi continued his cackling. “I wasn’t even completely sure he could smile. It’s a miracle!” Faraji grinned. “Somewhere in the world, some cranky old angel must be getting his wings!”

  


“Yes, well … maybe we should leave and allow Grandmaster Takashi to … collect himself,” the old man suggested.

  


“Good idea,” Faraji agreed, as Takashi showed no sign of stopping. “Besides, we need to find that … what did Manisha call it … ah, ‘overgrown pigeon,’ don’t we? That letter asked for a response.”

  


“Oh, right, it did,” the boy realized. “But, are you sure that bird’ll be up to it? It didn’t seem like it was in the best shape when it landed. Actually, ‘crashed’ would probably be more accurate.”

  


“Oh yeah, it’ll be fine,” Faraji assured him. “After all, that’s its job, isn’t it? I’m sure it’ll be happy to take our letter.”

  


* * *

  


Several minutes later, a thoroughly bloodied Faraji stumbled out of the chamber where the half-frozen owl had apparently taken up residence in front of a roaring fireplace. Evidently, it took issue with the polite suggestion that it immediately leave to carry yet another letter halfway across the planet, and it most certainly did not appreciate being called “an overgrown pigeon.” Given Faraji’s battered and bloody appearance, it was also not shy about expressing its opinion on these matters.

  


“On second thought, maybe we should just let your arrival be a bit of a surprise,” Faraji decided while making a staggering beeline for Asa.

  


“Whatever you say, master,” his snickering apprentice replied.

  


“On a completely unrelated note, owls _suck_!”

  


* * *

  


One packing session and a flurry of bandages from a laughing Asa later, and everyone was gathered in the ritual chamber once more. It seemed fitting that the same chamber that had brought the boy to the monastery would be the same one to help him leave it for a time.

  


“I don’t like this,” Faraji complained quietly.

  


The high grandmaster turned to see the man watching his apprentice say his farewells to each of the grandmasters. “I know you don’t, Master Faraji. But it is for the best,” he assured him.

  


“Remind me again how that is?” Faraji asked somewhat bitterly.

  


The old man turned to watch Grandmaster Manisha clasp the boy’s face between her hands and whisper something to him before wrapping him tightly in a hug. The young apprentice, having come a very long ways from the small, skittish child that had arrived in this chamber so long ago, returned the hug fiercely. The old man smiled at the sight. Finally, though, he responded to Faraji’s question.

  


“You know of your apprentice’s talent,” he said quietly. “He absorbs every lesson with unheard-of ease. However, as rewarding as it is to watch him excel as he does, it is also dangerous.”

  


Faraji turned to look at him at that. “Dangerous?”

  


The old man nodded, watching Grandmaster Kalen sneak a small parcel to the boy while trying to appear as if he simply happened to be standing in that part of the room and didn’t even notice the boy standing next to him. Given that most everyone was currently watching the boy and those next to him, the red-haired Grandmaster of Weapons was about as successful as one would expect. The high grandmaster shook his head in amusement at the sight. _Kalen may have many talents, but stealth is most certainly not one of them._

  


However, Faraji was still waiting for an answer. “You have done an admirable job of keeping him oblivious to the extent of his talent,” the old man answered slowly, “and this is a good thing. It keeps him from being consumed by his ego, and it ensures he remains driven to improve himself.” Faraji nodded, waiting for the old man to continue. “However, that very drive, as admirable as it is, poses a danger as well. If left unchecked, his endless desire to grow stronger could consume him more thoroughly than mere ego ever could.”

  


Faraji frowned at that. “So, what, you want him to go so they’ll slow him down?”

  


The old man shook his head. “Not at all. Like I said, his drive is admirable. I would not see his remarkable talent squandered, especially when he is so dedicated to fulfilling it. However, he _must_ find more in his life to dedicate himself to. If all he has is his desire to grow as a mage, then he will never grow as a person. That sort of imbalance will leave him hollow and crippled, and he deserves more than that.”

  


As he said this, he watched the boy walk towards Grandmaster Tasya, who, like always, stood surrounded by a void where no-one else entered. Except for a certain apprentice, apparently, who immediately reached out and embraced her in a hug, much to the surprise of those present, including her. However, surprised or no, she still reached out and returned the hug, albeit _very_ stiffly and awkwardly. Given how he grinned at her, though, he appreciated it all the same.

  


“Is it really as bad as all that?” Faraji asked quietly.

  


The old man sighed. “Did you notice that he never really showed an interest in the name ‘Harry Potter’?”

  


Faraji shrugged. “So what? He has a name. We gave it to him. They can call him whatever they like. It won’t change who he is.”

  


The high grandmaster shook his head. “That’s not the point. The point is that he expressed little curiosity about the name, or the parents that must have given it to him, or really anything about his past, and that is unusual. His primary interest was not in how this school might provide him a link to those parts of himself, but solely in the magic he could learn there. This concerns me, because it suggests that his desire to grow as a mage might be slowly starting to eclipse everything else that makes him who he is. I want more for him than that.”

  


Faraji looked deeply troubled. “What exactly do you hope for him to find in this school, then?”

  


The old man watched as Grandmaster Adriane began to open a portal. “Connection,” he answered softly.

  


* * *

  


_What, do they never dust this room or something_ , the boy wondered as he kept having to scrub at his watery eyes. Even cranky old Cyrus seemed to be feeling the effects as he gave a faint but audible sniffle after clapping him on the shoulder in farewell. Of course, he may have simply been experimenting with cooking again, horrifying though that thought may be. Magic knows he tended to use enough pepper to make even a dragon sneeze.

  


Grandmaster Takashi, of course, was too tough for mere dust or pepper to defeat him. “You have done well,” the Japanese grandmaster said stiffly. “Remember who you are, and where you come from, and you will do well there, too.”

  


He bowed in respect. “I will not let you down.”

  


Takashi nodded. “See that you don’t.” He turned to walk away before he paused, and finally, he seemed to soften ever so slightly. “You make me proud. I want you to know that.”

  


_Stupid dust._ “Thank you … master,” he finally got out.

  


Takashi smiled at that before he returned to his normal stern gaze and nodded.

  


Finally, though, everyone had said goodbye. Except for two.

  


He looked over to see the high grandmaster speaking with Master Faraji. Gritting his teeth, and scrubbing at his damn dust-filled eyes, he walked over to them. “I’m ready.”

  


The high grandmaster nodded. “So you are.”

  


Faraji, meanwhile, knelt in front of him. “Hey, kid.”

  


He smiled. “Hey, Far.”

  


His master smiled back. “How you feeling about all this?”

  


“Nervous,” he admitted. “I don’t really know what to do over there.”

  


Faraji chuckled. “Well, you being yourself has gotten you pretty far here. It might not be a bad start to try that over there as well. Just as a crazy idea.”

  


He laughed. “Well, I guess it beats my plan to try being you. That would have probably gotten me kicked out.”

  


The master and apprentice both laughed for a moment before reaching out and grasping the other in a hug. “I’m going to miss you, kid.”

  


He sniffled. “I’m sure. Without me here, you might actually be forced to do some work, since you won’t be able to pull out the old ‘training the kid’ excuse to get out of it.”

  


Faraji gasped in horror as he let go. “Hey, that’s not funny! That might actually happen!”

  


The old man helpfully chimed in. “In fact, you can count on it.”

  


“Damn,” Faraji muttered under his breath while his apprentice laughed at him. However, the moment quickly grew somber once more. “In all seriousness, kid,” Faraji continued, “I may not be over there with you in person, but I’ll still be there with you, you know?”

  


He nodded. “I know.” He rolled up his right sleeve, once again revealing the brand encircling his upper arm. “I’ve still got your mark, remember? I couldn’t get rid of you if I tried.”

  


Faraji smiled. “Damn straight,” he replied, clasping the mark on his own arm. “Oh,” he added with a mischievous grin, “and don’t be afraid to have some fun while you’re there. Get into some trouble and wreak a little havoc. After all, you’re still young. What exactly is the point of that if you’re not making some stupid decisions?”

  


The boy laughed. “Once again, you carve your own unique niche as a mentor. I’m pretty sure other masters don’t actually _encourage_ stupid choices and trouble-making.”

  


“Ugh, tell me about it,” Faraji complained. “Old Master Liang _never_ wanted me to have any fun when I was an apprentice!”

  


“For which I think the entire monastery and the world at large owes him a serious debt of thanks,” he replied snarkily. “And maybe a medal.”

  


“Hey, watch it, kid,” Faraji warned. “I’m not above getting Adriane to make that portal drop you in a lake or something.”

  


“You don’t have to tell me, master,” the boy replied, patting him on the cheek. “I know you’re not.”

  


Faraji snorted before clasping the kid in a hug once more. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

  


“I will, Far.”

  


He stepped back and took a breath to get control of his emotions before turning to the high grandmaster. “Do you have any advice for me?”

  


“I do,” the old man replied while nodding sagely. “Do not look directly into the sun.”

  


The boy gave him a very unimpressed look.

  


“Oh, alright,” the old man relented with a grin. “How about this: Do not feel that you must make yourself an island while you are there. You may be strong on your own, but never quite as much as you would be with others at your side.”

  


The boy nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll remember that.”

  


The high grandmaster smiled. “Then you will do well.”

  


The young apprentice bowed deeply. “Thank you for everything, High Grandmaster. I will never forget it.”

  


The old man placed a hand on the boy’s head. “And you will always be welcome,” he told the boy warmly. “Now, I believe you have a trial to embark on.”

  


The boy swallowed nervously as he nodded and turned to face the portal. Unlike the one that sent Faraji to him, its interior was not black. Instead, it showed what looked like a dirty alley, and the faint, constant sounds of a living city drifted through the opening. He cast a baleful glance at Grandmaster Adriane for the exit point.

  


“Hey, you want to travel pretty, buy a plane ticket,” Adriane responded.

  


The boy simply shook his head and stepped up to the portal.

  


“Teach you to suggest _I’d_ ever be the one to snap first,” she muttered under her breath. “Rilla is _clearly_ the unstable one of the two of us.”

  


The young apprentice didn’t hear her, though. He was too busy standing at the edge of the portal, preparing to take the next step in his life, and yet having a bit of trouble getting his foot to actually leave the floor in order to do so. He tried taking a deep breath, but his feet still felt like they weighed a hundred pounds.

  


“Hey kid,” he heard Faraji call from behind him.

  


He turned around, only to find his master wearing a disturbingly bright smile, which was absolutely never a good sign.

  


“You’re stalling,” Faraji said with barely restrained mirth. _Uh-oh._

  


* * *

  


Alfie Miller was an upstanding citizen. He worked hard(-ish), he paid his taxes, he did all the things a man was supposed to do. So what did it hurt if he liked to have a pint or two now and again? Didn’t he deserve that? Wasn’t he entitled to a little fun with the boys and a nice tall glass of Guinness from time to time?

  


“Damn … ssstraight I am!” he loudly decided, wishing the bloody sidewalk would stop tilting on him. Last time it did that, he nearly fell and broke his bottle.

  


“Ssstupid Mar’fa izzz … prob’ly doon’ it,” he realized. Miserable old hag. Always going on about him drinking, always nagging at him to “put down the damn bottle and help out around the house!” And so now what does she do? She gets the flamin’ sidewalk to try and pitch him to the ground to teach him a lesson.

  


“I’ll ssshow her!” he yelled, utterly oblivious to how everyone else around him alternated between staring at him and avoiding any and all eye contact whatsoever. “I’ll take … th’ alley!” Foolproof plan, that was. His shrew of a wife may have rigged the bleedin’ sidewalks, but she couldn’t have gotten the alleys, too!

  


He ended up staggering into a couple as he turned towards the alley. Given their sounds of disgust, they must have been just as annoyed about what Martha was doing to the sidewalks as he was.

  


“’Nnoyin’, innit?” he commiserated with the now speed-walking couple. “Course, ‘twouldn’t a’ worked if not fer thizzz … bloody ear ‘nfection I got.” Sadly, the couple in question was well down the street by the time he finished explaining. Probably trying to find a sidewalk that hadn’t been tampered with by vindictive wives. Understandable. Unfortunately for them, they didn’t seem to have come up with his brilliant alley solution.

  


“Oh well,” he hiccuped. “Not ev’r’one can be ssso ‘nginiss– … ingenie– … ssso _smart_.” Mollified, he turned and began heading down his chosen alley.

  


“Ha! Take that, Mar’fa!” he drawled victoriously while staggering along with one shoulder against the wall for stability. _This calls for a victory sip_ , he decided, draining half the bottle in one go.

  


It was a big victory, after all.

  


However, after plodding down that alley for a time, he came across a curious sight. The wall up ahead was … rippling. Like a reflection in a pond after a pebble had been chucked at it. He jumped in shock as a bright light appeared in the center of those ripples before widening into a large ring as tall as a man.

  


Alfie stared at the freaky glowing ring.

  


It didn’t go away.

  


He desperately chugged down the rest of his bottle.

  


It still didn’t go away.

  


What was worse, he could even hear voices coming from it, and he swore he could see what looked like some weird room through the bloody thing, despite the fact that the wall was most certainly solid and roomless just a second ago.

  


However, the final straw for poor Alfie Miller’s sanity was when someone actually came hurtling out of the damn circle shrieking its head off, right before the ring shrunk out of sight and vanished with one last ripple.

  


Alfie stared at the now solid wall, then at the strange person lying on the ground in a tangle of weird red clothing, then at the empty bottle in his hand. Utterly expressionless, he opened his hand and dropped the bottle to the ground before turning around and walking back the way he had come. _Maybe I’ll paint the fence like Martha’s been asking_ , he pondered.

  


* * *

  


“Damn it, Faraji!” that red-robed tangle groaned, glaring at the now non-existent portal. “Oh, it’s on now, _master_ ,” he declared as he painfully clambered to his feet. Assuaged by the promise of future vengeance, he began the tedious process of cleaning himself up and trying to figure out just where in the world he was.

  


Literally.

  


Satisfied that his robes had been brushed about as clean as they were ever going to be, he started out towards the nearby street. Once there, though, he froze at what he found.

  


The monastery had its own pulse of life. Day after day, the place was filled with the steady sounds of weapons clacking in the training yard, or the faint crackle and hum of magic being cast, or the distant bellows of Grandmaster Cyrus cursing. These constant sounds filled the air like the beating of a heart or the movement of air in the lungs.

  


This was … a cacophony.

  


Everywhere around him, engines roared, horns honked, and people babbled. Eyes wide, he stared out at endless hive of activity as the breathless noise washed over him like a physical presence, soaking into every aspect of his being.

  


It was _awesome_.

  


Overwhelming, for sure. For someone who had known little else but the quiet thrum of life in the monastery, he could feel himself almost getting lost in the sheer volume of the experience, as if he had moved from a warm, still pond to an icy, raging sea. But just because he had never swam in the sea before, that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the rough and wild nature of its sheer presence.

  


So too did he swim through the crowd, buffeted on all sides by the noise of traffic and conversation spilling free from a million throats at once, and all the while being physically jostled by oblivious walkers and anxious businessmen like broken waves constantly pushing and pulling at him.

  


“Incredible,” he breathed while trying to stare at everything at once.

  


_Methinks I may be_ _making_ _a fashion statement_ , he thought in amusement as he started to notice that he was receiving more than a few looks from the slightly less oblivious members of the bustling, monochrome crowd around him. Given the (slightly dirtied) bright red color of his very-much-not-a-business-suit, he guessed it shouldn’t be a surprise that he stood out just a tad.

  


Speaking of very-much-not-business-suits, he somehow doubted that he was going to find a magical community buried in the midst of rushing commuters and hungry office workers. Not a one of them looked like they’d be able to pull off a sweet set of robes. So where on earth was he supposed to be going?

  


Frowning, he broke free of the mildly gawking crowd and started towards yet another alley. As much as he had been relishing this new experience, he needed a bit of quiet and some space to breathe if he was going to find what he was looking for.

  


Strolling down the empty alley, he stared up at the rooftops high above. _Perfect_. Looking around quickly, he ducked out of sight behind a dustbin and quickly opened up a small portal. Stepping through it onto the rooftop of a nearby building, he paused and took a deep breath, feeling like he had been buried under water in the chaos of the street. An interesting experience city-life may have been, but he definitely wouldn’t want it to be his everyday norm.

  


Belatedly looking around to make sure he was alone, he settled down on the gravel-covered rooftop to think. _Well, they really wanted me to start my trial with an uphill climb, didn’t they? I mean, would it have killed them to_ _just_ _drop me off in the magical community? Or maybe give me a map? Nooooo,_ _let’s just chuck our apprentice through a portal to some random-ass spot! Brilliant plan!_

  


With a sigh, he sank himself more deeply into his power, needing a bit of comfort to offset his rising stress levels. While his power formed a constant presence flowing through his veins, it was still nice to embrace it more fully just for the sake of doing so. And so he once again luxuriated in the sauna-warm presence of his magic, already feeling himself relax.

  


“I know! I’ll force-feed Faraji some of Cyrus’ stew!”

  


Of course, to some people, fantasies of revenge were even more relaxing than magic.

  


_Alright, let’s see what we got,_ he began pondering after (regretfully) forcing himself back on topic. _I need to find a magical community. I have absolutely no idea where they are or how they have hidden themselves, or even where I am exactly. I have no map, no directions, and no way of contacting them. I suppose I could just start marching down the street whistling and calling out “Wizards! Come here, wizards,” but I somehow doubt that would work._

  


“Hell, while I’m at it, why not just challenge them to a game of Marco Polo?” he asked of no-one. Sighing more bitterly this time, he sank himself even more deeply into his magic, feeling it flicker and whirl around his inner self like flames around a log as he listened to it hum and sing its strange little song.

  


Suddenly, he froze, opening his eyes wide and staring at nothing while thinking furiously. “There’s no way …” he started quietly while turning his inner eye inwards. “I mean, could it?” He stood there indecisively.

  


_Aw, hell. It’s not like I have anything to lose in trying, do I?_ Decided, he gathered his power to him, drawing it in more and more deeply until he felt like the very air around him might catch fire, and then he released it in a single massive pulse.

  


“Marco,” he called out with a grin as he felt the invisible wave of his magic race away.

  


For several seconds, he waited with bated breath, anxious to see whether this inane plan would bear fruit. Sure enough, he eventually felt/heard a faint resonance far in the distance.

  


“Polo,” he interpreted with a laugh, opening a portal to another rooftop.

  


And that was how he traveled across the city, skipping from rooftop to rooftop while occasionally letting loose more magical pulses to hone in on his destination. Eventually, this led him to a short rooftop overlooking what looked like a rather rundown old pub. Curious, he let loose another pulse, this time hearing and feeling it resonate so strongly it was practically smacking him across the back of the head.

  


With a shrug, he stepped off the edge of his rooftop. Whatever its deal was, it was the only place in the area that resonated with magic. At the very least, he’d be able to find some clues on how to find the rest of the wizarding world in there.

  


A couple of non-magical shoppers gave a cry of surprise as he apparently just dropped out of the clear blue sky to land lightly right in front of them. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully, stepping across the street to the old pub.

  


“Uh … morning?” one of the women responded weakly while her friend just stared up at the sky as if fearing a sudden downpour of red-robed teenagers. He barely noticed, however. He was busy feeling a faint wash of magic that wasn’t his own pass over him as he stepped closer to the pub.

  


_Definitely in the right place_ , he thought as he watched a sign over the door slowly reveal itself when he reached the threshold. “The Leaky Cauldron,” he read aloud. He smiled in anticipation. _This should be interesting._

  


* * *

  


Opening the door, he was … well, “disappointed” is a strong word …

  


The interior of this dingy old pub just looked like … a dingy old pub. Granted, he wasn’t quite sure exactly what he expected, but still.

  


Although, he did see a healthy dose of robes on the patrons, so that was a good sign.

  


“Mornin’, kid,” a man called out from behind the bar where he seemed to be making great strides in his impersonation of a wrinkled old walnut. “What can I do ya’ for?”

  


“Well, I was hoping you could tell me how to find the wizarding community,” he answered bluntly, stepping up to the bar.

  


Everyone in the bar stopped dead at the utterly bizarre request leveled by the strange red-robed kid.

  


“Well,” the bartender began to answer uncertainly, not quite sure what to make of the question, “there’s Diagon Alley, if that’s what you mean. The doorway to get there’s right through the back.”

  


“Oh,” he replied. _Well, that was easy_. “I don’t suppose I could get some food before I go, could I?” It had been a long day, after all.

  


“Certainly!” The bartender perked up at the question, glad to finally be back in his wheelhouse. “What’ll you have?”

  


“Oh, just something for lunch. I’m not too picky,” he answered. “Although,” he added in concern as he took a glance at the … “meal” his neighbor was currently digging into with a sincere lack of gusto, “something edible would be preferred. I’d even be willing to pay for taste, if that’s on the menu.”

  


“Hmm. Well, that does narrow down the choices a bit, don’t it?” the bartender replied with a twisted smile. “I’ll see what we have.”

  


“Thank you,” he said back with a bright smile.

  


He started rummaging through his rucksack for his money pouch while the bartender wandered off. After all, he somehow doubted that this place ran on IOUs. However, no sooner did he have the pouch in hand than the bartender returned with a steaming plate.

  


He stared at the plate in front of him for a moment. “Okay, you came back WAY too fast for that to be freshly made.”

  


The old bartender snickered. “Hey, you asked for it to be edible and to have taste. You didn’t say nothin’ about freshness.” The bartender gave him a wicked grin.

  


He snorted as he gave the man a rueful smile. “No, I suppose I didn’t.” He tossed the man a few coins and began to have at it.

  


The bartender, though, stood there and inspected the coins curiously. “These ain’t no sickles. What kinda coins are these?”

  


“The kind that pays for lunch, hopefully. Otherwise, I might be in trouble here,” he replied, taking a bite. _Wow. That is a_ lot _of grease._ “Though, I hope they’re also the kind that leaves me with some change, because there’s a chance I may need to pay a healer later,” he continued. “Totally unrelated to this meal, of course,” he added dryly, digging into a different part of his plate. _Hmm. I can’t quite tell if this is food with salt added to it, or salt with food added to it._

  


The wrinkled old man snorted as he started calculating change. “Hey, with sass like that, you’ll be lucky if I don’t bring you the pea soup next time.” Given the horrified gasps that echoed throughout the pub at that statement, that probably wasn’t a threat to take lightly.

  


“Oh no no no, I’m good with this,” he hastily assured him, taking another bite with an overlarge smile. “Mmm!” He had to suppress a cough as he found the answer to his previous question, but he maintained his cheery expression as the old bartender chuckled and walked away.

  


Taking a quick gulp of water to help force down the … “food,” he swiped his change off the counter and placed it in his rather-full money pouch. _Thank you, Kalen_ , he though with a smile as he placed the pouch in his pocket. The man ran one hell of a betting operation back at the monastery, and every time he faced off against Master Faraji, he always placed a sizable wager on his master to win. After all, if he was going to get his ass handed to him, he might as well get paid for it at least.

  


Kalen had been hesitant to accept his bets at first, afraid that he might throw the fights to win the gold, but once he explained his mentality about the whole thing, Kalen was more than happy to start taking his wagers, especially when he explained that if he ever _did_ manage to beat his master, he’d be too ecstatic to care about losing a few coins. Although, for some reason, Kalen had recently been offering longer and longer odds for Faraji to win. He could only assume that Kalen figured that Faraji was bound to fall to a lucky shot sooner or later, given how often they squared off against each other. Whatever, though. It meant more money for him when Faraji wiped the floor with him, so he certainly wasn’t complaining.

  


Finishing his plate of grease and salt and a few tidbits of what may have been actual food, he gathered up his stuff and started towards the back room that the old bartender claimed led to this “Diagon Alley” place.

  


“Leavin’ already?” the man asked while polishing a glass with a disturbingly dirty hand towel. _Note to self: Do not drink from the glasses in the Leaky Cauldron_. With an internal grimace, he mentally amended that. _Any more_.

  


“Yep. Thank you for the meal. It was … _memorable_ ,” he answered with a grin.

  


The bartender barked out a laugh. “I’ve heard that sentiment expressed a time or two around here.” He nodded towards the back room. “You know how to open the doorway?”

  


“I’m guessing you mean something a bit more complicated then just turning a doorknob, so I’m going to go out on a limb here and say ‘no’,” he responded.

  


Setting down the glass, the smiling bartender stepped out from behind the bar and led the way to a small, empty courtyard. As he did, he looked down at the boy curiously. “Don’t you got any parents, kid?”

  


“Of course. I hardly just sprung up from the ground, now did I?” he retorted with a grin.

  


The old man rolled his eyes at the cheeky answer. “I meant, you’re not just out here all alone, are you?”

  


He gave the man an indignant look. “Of course I’m not out here all alone. It would be downright irresponsible of an adult to send a kid my age out all by himself.” He snickered internally as he said that, but he was careful to keep a straight face.

  


The bartender raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here you are.”

  


“I’m going to be meeting people in the alley,” he explained. “I just left before my family could tell me how to get in there, exactly.”

  


The old bartender seemed to accept that and gestured to the far wall. “Well, that’s where the entrance is. To get in, tap your wand or your finger around these sunken bricks here, like so.” The wrinkly old man pulled out a rather grubby-looking wand and slowly tapped a sequence of bricks around a group of bricks that were embedded extra deeply in the wall.

  


As he did, the boy heard magic begin to sing all around him, and before his eyes, the bricks in the wall started to fold back on each other, slowly starting to reveal what he could only assume was Diagon Alley.

  


And what a sight it was. Like the city, this place bustled with life and movement and the relentless drum of consumerism, but this place was unique in that uniqueness itself seemed to be prized. Rather than enveloping themselves in suits that seemed designed to bleed all individuality from the crowd and turn everyone into simply more nameless faces in a well-dressed mass, wizards and witches adorned themselves in robes and shawls and hats and dresses that were often as colorful as they were eccentric and bizarre. He could have sworn he even saw one woman walk by with an actual stuffed vulture on her hat, for crying out loud.

  


He could tell he was going to like this place.

  


However, he was treated to more than just the sight of the wizarding world’s unique sense of fashion. He was awash in a veritable tide of magic that crashed against him, passing over and through him like nothing else. The magic inside him leaped and twirled and sang as it reveled in meeting more of its kind, and the magic of the alley hummed and sang along. For a moment, he forgot everything about where he was or what he was doing. He was simply blissfully overwhelmed by the sheer presence of magic itself, like he had suddenly been dropped into a calm ocean that extended beyond sight in all directions, leaving him in complete awe of the sheer scale of its presence while also feeling utterly small and lost in the face of such a behemoth.

  


And yet, in spite of that overwhelming sensation, he felt nothing but a sense of belonging, as if his proper place was nowhere else other than in that vast ocean.

  


“Quite an experience, isn’t it, seeing the alley for the first time?” the old bartender asked with a smile on his face while staring out at the alley with the kid.

  


“Yes, it is,” the boy answered quietly, not noticing his eyes beginning to glow a vibrant, living green.

  


The wrinkled old man looked down at the boy with a slight frown at hearing something so different from the dry, snarky tone the kid had used up until that point. “Hey, kid, you alright?” he asked in a bit of concern.

  


The boy continued staring at nothing, or more accurately, staring at something beyond mere sight or physical presence, and all the while, his eyes continued to glow brighter and brighter with their strange, ethereal light, though the old man’s position slightly behind him meant that he saw none of this. However, between one heartbeat and the next, the experience was suddenly gone like a popped bubble. The light vanished and the boy was left shaking his head feeling utterly disoriented.

  


“Kid?” the old man asked again, his tone of concern growing stronger.

  


“I’m fine,” he assured the man, already shaking off the overwhelming feeling. “You were right. It was quite an experience,” he told him with a smile. “I should be going, though. People to meet and all that, and I’m sure you have more customers to tortur–I mean, _feed_.”

  


The old bartender rolled his eyes and smiled as the kid’s sarcastic tone made a full comeback. “Yeah, get out of here, kid. Go find those people you were looking for,” he said warmly. “Come back any time. I’ll be sure to whip up a special batch of pea soup just for you.” His smile took on a wicked glint at that.

  


“I feel so special,” the boy replied in utter deadpan.

  


The bartender chuckled. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

  


“You too, old man,” he told him, turning to head into the alley.

  


He took a deep breath as he heard the entrance brick over itself behind him. _Alright_ , he thought to himself, looking over the alley, _no turning back now. Time to see what this world has in store for me._


	5. Shut up and take my money!

Crowds.

  


That was what the wizarding world had in store for him, apparently.

  


But not like the crowds in the non-magical city. Oh no. That crowd worked like a stream of ants, everyone filing along in straight lines one after another, all answering the call of some invisible queen as they marched to work or marched to lunch, or marched back to work from their lunch.

  


This crowd was more like … bees in a flower field. Everyone bumbled about about from store to store like they were drunkenly collecting pollen, each one of them flitting and buzzing about in their own chaotic way, happily stumbling into one another as they simply _had_ to get to the shop across the street while another group clearly had absolutely no choice but to flock towards a store in the other direction.

  


And there was just so _many_ of them!

  


_I can’t believe that old bartender thought I’d be out here all alone,_ he thought to himself in amusement. _Look at this, people everywhere_.

  


However, as he walked down the street getting gently bumped into by all of the brightly robed human bumblebees flitting about, he realized he had a very important question to answer.

  


_Where on earth do I go first?_

  


Unable to decide, he continued to stroll down the alley while staring curiously at each of the stores. Over to his left looked like an apothecary, the windows of which were filled barrels and boxes of what looked like various organs and appendages of a myriad of creatures. With a grimace, he even watched one shopper reach a hand into one barrel filled with tiny black beads that he somehow doubted were coffee beans. _Alright, you know what, that’s just nasty. She wasn’t even wearing gloves._

  


With a shudder, he turned to a shop on the other side of the street, which somehow seemed to be running a booming business of selling stylized cleaning tools.

  


“Look,” he heard one apparently awestruck boy exclaim while staring in the window at a particularly ornate broom, “It’s the new Nimbus Two Thousand! It’s the fastest model yet …”

  


_So, what, it helps you sweep faster?_ He shook his head as he listened to the surrounding kids ooh and aah over the display. _I thought kids were supposed to be more interested in creating messes than in cleaning them up? At least, that’s what Far always insisted._

  


“Freakin’ wizards,” he muttered in bafflement. Moving on, he noticed one particular building that stood out from all the rest. All around him, the shops were made of glass and wood and looked like they had been built a few hundred years ago, most sporting peeling paint or walls stained almost black with age, and more than a few had a leaning tilt to their shape that suggested they had once started collapsing, been halfheartedly propped back up, and everyone had just continued with business as usual ever since.

  


Not the building up ahead, though.

  


Unlike the others, this building was neither dark nor wooden. It was made of pristine, gleaming white marble that shone in the midday sun like pale sand under a desert sky, and where all the other buildings leaned against each other like a mob of drunken barflies staggering from pub to pub, this building stood tall and straight, giving the impression of absolute sturdiness, as if it had stood there for a thousand years and would continue to stand for a thousand more, utterly unyielding and forever unchanging.

  


“ _Gringotts Bank_ ,” he read off the stone over the door. Lowering his eyes, he also took note of the decidedly non-human guards standing on either side of the doors, and of how even more of their people seemed to be running the bank inside. Turning, he also observed how the alley led up to and broke around the building, which, combined with the bank’s unique and eye-catching appearance, made the bank the unequivocal heart of the alley.

  


“Interesting,” he mused aloud. “I’m going to have to check that place out some day.” _Not today, though_. He turned back to the rest of the alley. He already had money, after all. Plus, whatever those people were, he doubted they’d be too thrilled about non-account holders strolling through their bank gawking at the sites like a kid at a zoo.

  


_So, I haven’t the foggiest idea where I want to go first, but I’ve eliminated one place I do_ not _want to go_. _So, that’s progress, I guess._ Rolling his eyes at himself, he was about to just start picking shops at random when he heard the song.

  


Not with his ears, of course. Music like this was too otherworldly for mere sound to ever be able to capture it, not to mention that none of the other shoppers streaming around him seemed to be catching even the faintest note of it.

  


He, however, felt the song fill him like water flowing into a pitcher as he sought out its source. He was neither confused nor alarmed about the experience as he strode down the alley with distant, almost rote movements. Why should he be alarmed? After all, he had been listening to this song all his life.

  


It was the same tune his magic sang.

  


He distantly registered an old, weathered brass doorknob in his hand as he opened a door, and the faint tinkling of a bell overhead, but little else. The song had caught him up.

  


He didn’t know how long he stood there in whatever room he had entered, enchanted by that mesmerizing tune that no-one else seemed to hear. He suspected it was only a minute or two, but time really had no meaning for him at that moment. There was only the song.

  


“Good afternoon,” a soft voice whispered from just behind him.

  


He didn’t even notice.

  


The owner of the voice frowned in disappointment, let down that his little game of startling his first-time visitors had been foiled. Striding around the oddly statue-still boy, however, his expression quickly turned to surprise. The boy’s blankly staring eyes were flickering with a verdant, uneven glow, like a candle flame that was sputtering in the wind, an inch away from being blown out. His own eyes, glowing silver like two full moons on a foggy night, widened at the sight.

  


“My word,” he muttered.

  


With that, the boy was finally broken free of his trance. He still heard the music in the air around him, something he suspected everyone might be able to do to some extent, given how strong it was here, but it was no longer sweeping him up like wood chips in a current.

  


Shaking his head, he looked around, curious to find himself in some dusty old shop filled floor to ceiling in shelves of some strange little boxes that practically pulsed with magic. Turning the other direction, however, he was just a tad surprised to find himself suddenly staring into a pair of pale, curious eyes from merely a foot away.

  


With a strangled cry, he violently hurled himself away, tripping over a spindly old chair that had apparently been right behind him, and was evidently not sturdy enough to withstand a preteen trying to give the floor a surprise backwards hug.

  


The old shopkeeper stared in shock at the red-robed boy groaning on the floor surrounded by chair rubble, not quite sure how to respond to such a display. Only for a moment, however. “Well, that was a bit more energetic than I was going for, but I suppose it will do,” he muttered to himself with the beginnings of a laugh in his voice.

  


“What?” the boy asked in confusion as he painfully extricated himself from the wreckage of what had once been a perfectly serviceable chair.

  


“Oh, nothing,” the shopkeeper waved him off. “I was just noting your rather … _unique_ entrance into my store.”

  


“Oh,” he replied sheepishly. “Sorry about that. I guess I just kinda … got caught up.” He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.

  


The white-haired old shopkeeper chuckled, his silvery eyes glowing brightly in the gloom of his shop. “I know how that can go. No worries, no harm done.” With that, he pulled an ancient-looking wand from his sleeve and gave it a wave over the newly made scrap wood in his store. The boy watched wide eyed as the splinters and boards reassembled themselves once more into a spindly old chair, hearing the old man’s magic sing as it did so.

  


“Incredible,” he breathed, turning to look at the wand, which looked rather like a small, still-living branch that seemed no less alive for having been separated from the rest of its tree, even despite the vast sense of age it seemed to emanate. Suddenly, however, he turned to look at all of the small boxes lining the walls. “This is a wand shop!” he blurted out in excited realization.

  


“Yes, I know,” the old shopkeeper answered in amusement. “Garrick Ollivander, at your service,” he introduced himself with a small bow. “Welcome to my store.”

  


“Pleased to meet you,” the boy replied distractedly, delicately tracing his hands along the air in front of the boxes and feeling his hand tingle from the power locked inside.

  


“I take it you want to get started in finding your partner, then?” Ollivander asked with a smile.

  


The boy turned to face him with a gleam in his eyes. “Hell freakin’ yeah!”

  


Ollivander snorted. “Well, that’s just a tad different from the enthusiasm that I normally encounter, but enthusiasm none the less! Let’s get started.” With that, he wandered over to one of the walls, repeatedly glancing back at his customer as if judging and measuring him as he moved left and right along the shelf.

  


“So …,” the boy began in confusion, “I take it I don’t just pick one I like?”

  


Ollivander chuckled. “Oh, certainly not. It is the wand that chooses the wizard, not the other way around.”

  


He cocked his head. “You mean they’re sentient?”

  


Ollivander paused in perusing his chosen shelf. “In a sense,” he finally answered. “Even we who spend our lives studying wandlore remain ignorant of all their secrets, but one thing that is absolutely clear is that wands are very much alive. It would not even be inaccurate to say that they have personalities, and feelings, albeit rather different from those that you or I may experience.”

  


“Huh,” his customer eloquently responded, turning back to his own shelf.

  


“Ah, here we are,” Ollivander finally declared, delicately reaching out and tugging one of the boxes free. Opening it revealed a wand made of a glossy black wood. Ever so gently, he pulled the prospective match free and handed it to the boy, who took it reverently.

  


“Blackthorn wood with a phoenix feather core. Twelve and three-quarter inches. Somewhat brittle,” Ollivander informed him. “Go ahead, try it.”

  


Nodding, the boy felt his magic gently coursing through his veins, heard its resonance with the magic of the wand in his hands. Gently, he extended his power into the wand, smiling in excitement at the prospect of finding the partner to his mag–

  


**BANG**

  


Ollivander stared dumbfounded as the wand physically expelled the customer holding it, blasting the yelping boy into the far wall with one of the most violent displays of rejection he had ever seen.

  


“How strange,” he said, delicately picking the wand off the floor and checking it for damage while the boy agonizingly picked himself off the floor of the shop for the second time in as many minutes.

  


“If wands have personalities,” the boy groaned, “then I’m pretty sure that wand is an asshole.”

  


“I think that may be a bit excessive,” Ollivander defended. “It’s just … high spirited.”

  


“I’ll show you ‘high spirited’,” the boy muttered, glaring at the wand. “I’ll turn that damn thing into a pair of chopsticks. _Spiritedly_.”

  


To the baffled wandmaker’s alarm, the wand in his hands even started spitting angry red sparks as if challenging the boy.

  


“Um … you know what, I think I’ll just place this wand back in its box,” Ollivander decided, giving the wand a fierce shake to make it stop sparking. It took a few attempts.

  


Finally, however, he had the recalcitrant wand placed back on its shelf and had moved on to another box, though all the while noting his rather unreasonably irritable customer continuing to glare at his first mismatched partner while massaging his ribs.

  


“Somehow, I get the feeling this is going to be a long day,” he muttered to himself while carrying another box to the boy.

  


He was not wrong.

  


The next wand he proposed, aspen wood and dragon heartstring with a surprisingly swishy flexibility, did absolutely nothing when the boy waved it. That was the exception. The next spun him around like a top. The fourth set the newly restored chair on fire. The one after that somehow managed to stick the boy to the ceiling before Ollivander could get him down again. On and on it went, with the boy getting more and more reluctant to try each wand out of fear of what the next would do, all while Ollivander watched with amazement and curiosity, never having seen half of these effects before. He hadn’t even known it was possible for a wand to reject a wielder by forcing him to tap dance, and rather skillfully at that.

  


Eventually, however, the boy was left dripping wet, twitching like he had just been electrocuted (fittingly), and dressed in robes that seemed to be stained absolutely every color other than their original red. Needless to say, by this point, he was beyond unreasonable about the suggestion that he try even one more wand.

  


“Sir, please put down the chair.”

  


“NO!” the boy cried, holding the now repeatedly repaired chair between him and Ollivander like a lion tamer. “You just keep those damn death traps away from me!”

  


“Sir, I promise you, my wands are not death traps,” Ollivander patiently explained while slowly advancing on the boy with one more box. “I’ll admit, I am not entirely sure how a maple wand managed to conjure a thunderstorm quite that fearsome inside my shop, but I assure you, that was very much not the norm.”

  


“And what about the giant bull?!” the slightly unhinged boy demanded, still holding the chair between them. With that, the shopkeeper stared around at the absolute wreckage that surrounded them.

  


“Ah, my poor shop,” he muttered mournfully, glancing from his demolished counter to the myriad of broken shelves and scattered wands that lay heavy on the floor like fallen swords on a battlefield. However, he quickly shook himself free of his melancholy. He still had a customer to match, after all!

  


“Just … take the wand, sir,” he continued, holding out the latest possible match.

  


“No!”

  


“Take it!”

  


“ _No!_ ”

  


Ollivander gave an exasperated sigh. “Well then, why exactly are you still here if not to try and find your matching wand? Hmm?”

  


“Because I’m afraid your other wands will attack me if I try to step past them to get to the door!” the boy retorted, staring wide-eyed at the wands on the ground as if they were live snakes.

  


“Oh, come now. You’re being unreasonable. None of my wands have done you any lasting damage, have they? Come come, just try this one.”

  


The boy glared at him indignantly. “I’d say my deep mental and emotional trauma counts as lasting damage. And I swear that damn first wand cracked a rib.”

  


“No-one likes a complainer, young man,” Ollivander scolded him, earning an offended look in response. “Just try the wand. Come on, put down the chair.”

  


For a moment, the boy seriously considered simply running for it, but he really did need a wand, so, _reluctantly_ , he slowly set down the chair, though he was sure to keep it between him and the majority of the wands on the floor.

  


Jerkily, as if expecting to grasp a live coal, he reached out his hand and took the next wand from the far-too-excited wandmaker. Desperately praying that this one wouldn’t make him yodel or something, he ever so tentatively extended a thread of magic into the wand.

  


Everything fell away. The icy feel of the wet clothing on his back. His lingering irritation with that stupid blackthorn wand. His terror at what wildly peculiar or painful reaction he would be subjected to next. All of that vanished as the music returned once more, but unlike the song that drew him to the shop, this didn’t simply pull him along like a half-forgotten voice calling out his name. This consumed him. The music crashed through him and swept him far away from dusty old wand shops and green-eyed boys trying to learn magic.

  


He opened eyes he never realized were shut, and he no longer saw a wrinkled old shopkeeper, or the wreckage of a score of different wand rejections. All he saw was _fire_.

  


Like he was swimming across the surface of the sun, everywhere he looked, he saw oceans of flame extending beyond the horizon, and he had the impression that they stretched far beyond even that, reaching all the way to the shady side of eternity. All he saw was the flame … and a strange shape building in the difference, gathering form and reaching closer as the song that drowned him built to a crescendo.

  


“ _Greetings, Harry.”_

  


With a strangled grasp, he snapped back to the real world, only to find the wand in his hand emitting a bright golden glow and filling the air with the closest sound could come to replicating that haunting song. Gradually, however, the music quieted as the golden glow slowly faded, leaving only after-spots in the eyes and the faint taste of ozone on the tongue.

  


For a moment, neither boy nor wandmaker spoke, both staring silently at the wand.

  


“Well, that was disappointing,” the boy remarked blithely. “You got another wand for me to try?”

  


The horrified wandmaker made a violent choking sound as he tried to make a dozen indignant retorts at once.

  


The boy snickered. “I’m kidding,” he assured the old shopkeeper. “I guess this one will do,” he added, hefting his new wand in his hand.

  


This remark did not seem to mollify Ollivander.

  


“‘This one will do,’ he says,” he muttered to himself in a deeply offended tone. “The most visceral display of bonding I have ever witnessed, and he says it will do.” Sighing in exasperation, he turned and tenderly picked his way over the scattered wands to the pile of wreckage that vaguely resembled what might have once been a counter. “I need a vacation.”

  


“And I may actually need a healer,” the boy complained, massaging his ribs while following the cranky wandmaker.

  


“Good,” Ollivander muttered vindictively under his breath, drawing his own wand and waving it at the nearby rubble, forcing it to abandon its impression of a pile of firewood and get back to work as a counter.

  


“Now then,” he turned to his customer, “you finally have your partner, for which I think condolences are in order.”

  


“What? Why?! Is there something wrong with my wand?” The boy hastily started checking over every inch of his new acquisition.

  


“Hmm?” Ollivander asked with an airy tone of voice. “Oh, I meant my condolences for the wand, not yourself.”

  


“Oh,” the boy replied, sagging in relief. At least, until he noticed the old man’s meaning. “Hey!”

  


The wispy old wandmaker snickered at the boy’s expression before reaching out to take the wand back to examine it. The boy reluctantly handed it over, demonstrating that his initial flippant comment did not truly reflect his feelings about the wand, which mollified the rather protective wandmaker as he traced his hands over his creation.

  


The outer surface of the wand bore a warm red sheen, though the intricate carvings and patterns tracing its length revealed a golden hue to the wood below the surface. The handle was carved in an abstract pattern reminiscent of wings, though this section of the wand contrasted the rest in that it portrayed more of the golden hue of the wood than the warm red that more strongly dominated the rest. The wand itself was 13 inches long and rather flexible. However, what Ollivander paid most attention to went beyond its mere appearance, as he felt an inner warmth emanating from the core that made the wand almost hot to the touch. As for core itself …

  


“Interesting …,” Ollivander whispered to himself.

  


“What is?” the boy asked curiously. The wandmaker’s eyes snapped up to meet his own at the question, and the boy felt a surprising amount of intensity from those odd silver orbs as they stared deep into his own bright green ones as if searching for something.

  


Or as if weighing what he had already seen.

  


The intense moment passed, however, and with a warm smile, Ollivander began to speak. “Your wand is made of rowan wood,” he explained. “A rather curious element, and surprisingly difficult to work with. It has been used by muggles since time immemorial as protection against witchcraft, and dark magic above all. In fact, one of their older names for the tree is ‘Witchbane,’ so as you can imagine, while it is a rather powerful wood, it does not take to magic lightly or easily.” Ollivander smiled more proudly as he continued. “However, for a wandmaker who is clever and persistent, and more than a little lucky, the wood from a rowan tree can be crafted into a singularly powerful partner for a wizard, especially if used to fight against evil or to protect oneself or others.”

  


The boy nodded along as the wandmaker spoke, drinking in these details about his new partner.

  


Ollivander gave him a pleased smile, happy to see such interest. “The core of your wand is the tail feather of a phoenix. Now, given the immortal bird’s strong tendency towards detachment and independence, it is rather difficult to bind their feathers into a wand, even more so with this particular wood. In fact, I was rather surprised when these two elements joined together at all. While phoenix-feather wands tend to be extremely versatile, capable of most anything in the hands of the right owner, I can honestly say that I have little idea what a wand such as this will be capable of.”

  


Reaching out, he returned the wand to the boy once more, noting in pleasure that the boy seemed to be treating it with the respect it deserved. “You have a unique partner there, young man. Treat it well, and I have little doubt that we will witness great things from you.”

  


The boy bowed to the wandmaker. “I promise I will take great care with this wand,” he swore.

  


Ollivander smiled deeply. “In that case, that will be seven galleons, please.”

  


The boy fished in his pockets for his money pouch, tucking his new wand behind his waist as he did so.

  


Ollivander chuckled. “You may wish to be careful placing your wand there. I’d be rather disappointed if that wand’s legacy ended up being that it blew its owner’s buttocks off before being snapped in retaliation.”

  


The boy gave him a bemused look. “Does that actually happen?”

  


“More than you’d think,” Ollivander replied sorrowfully. “Oh, those poor wands.”

  


The boy grinned at the old wandmaker’s priorities. “Well then, do you have a recommendation of how else I could carry it?”

  


“I sell various holsters as well,” Ollivander nodded. “They can hold the wand along your forearm, calf, or hang it at your waist.”

  


“I’ll take a wrist one, then,” the boy happily replied.

  


“That’ll be an extra two galleons,” Ollivander informed him while heading into a back room for the holster.

  


At that, however, the boy realized that he had no idea what a galleon was. He remembered the old bartender mentioning sickles when holding one of his silver coins, though, so he assumed that a sickle was their version of a silver coin, meaning a galleon must be the wizarding version of a gold coin. With that, he dug out a handful of gold coins from his pouch.

  


Ollivander, who had returned with the arm holster, took note of the boy sorting through a rather eclectic collection of coins from what looked like a dozen different nations and cultures. “Interesting collection of currency you have there,” he remarked, setting the holster on the counter and ringing up the purchase with his newly repaired till.

  


“I’m assuming that a galleon is a gold coin,” the boy inquired in response.

  


The old shopkeeper gave him a curious look. “Yes, it is.”

  


“Any chance you could help me to count out an appropriate number of non-galleon gold coins? I’m not sure how large a galleon is.”

  


Ollivander smiled. “Of course. Though, if you’d like, I’d also be happy to trade you galleons for gold coins as well. I get paid in little else, so I have more than a few, and while I would _never_ besmirch the honor of my fellow alley shop owners, a few of them might … _miscount_ if dealing with non-standard currency.”

  


“That would be a big help. Thank you,” the boy answered in relief. “I didn’t even think about that.”

  


“It is no problem,” Ollivander chuckled, calculating a trade that would leave the boy with a fair few standard galleons, while also leaving himself a bit of profit in the way of a few more coins than the galleons were actually worth, though only at the boy’s insistence.

  


“Hey, while I have my money out,” the boy began as they started wrapping up their little trade, “I don’t suppose you allow customers to purchase wands that did not bond to them, do you?” The boy tried to look casual, but he was clearly just a little too interested in the answer, and given his furtive glances towards a certain section of shelving that had survived the near constant catastrophe that was his failed attempts at wand use, Ollivander had an idea why.

  


“Are you asking because you are hoping to buy the blackthorn wand just so you can snap it in half?” Ollivander asked dryly.

  


“No!” the boy replied indignantly, to which Ollivander gave him a very flat look. “I was thinking something more along the lines of fire, actually,” he admitted, turning to give a fierce glare at the boxed-up wand that had given such an unwarrantedly violent response to his brief attempt at using it. To Ollivander’s surprise, this statement was followed by a distinct rattling sound coming from that very box, as if the wand inside had heard the comment and was daring the boy to come say it to its face.

  


“Never in all my years have I seen this much enmity between a wand and a person,” Ollivander remarked in bemusement as the young boy and the rattling cardboard box continued their impromptu stare-down. “However, I am afraid I am going to have to decline your request.”

  


“I’ll pay you extra!” the boy offered hopefully.

  


“ _No_ ,” Ollivander replied firmly. “Just because you two do not get along–” he cut off as the lid jumped off the box from the force of the sparks the wand was now spitting. “Alright, just because you two apparently hate each other beyond all reason or even precedent for what a wand should be capable of,” he amended while hurrying over to quiet the wand before it burned down what was left of his shop, “does not mean I will allow you two to have it out in my shop. Besides, this wand may very well be the perfect partner for some witch or wizard still to come.”

  


“Well, I pity the sucker that gets stuck with that old toothpick,” the boy snorted, to which the wand in Ollivander’s hand actually started hissing as it spat sparks even more furiously than before.

  


“Would you please stop antagonizing the wand?” the frazzled shopkeeper begged before his store actually caught on fire.

  


“ _Fine_ ,” the boy pouted, strapping his new holster to his right forearm.

  


“That goes for you, too,” Ollivander told the wand sternly. At first, it seemed like the wand would ignore him, but after one final burst of sparks, it finally stilled. “Thank you,” Ollivander told it while placing it back in its now charred box.

  


“Now then,” Ollivander began as he returned to the counter, “if you are quite finished picking fights with innocent wands–”

  


“Hey, that wand started it!” the boy retorted, flexing and moving his arm to get a feel for the holster.

  


“You might be better served in focusing on your own wand,” Ollivander continued as if the boy had never spoken. “You have a relationship to start building with it, after all.”

  


“Yeah, I know,” he replied distractedly, sheathing said wand in his new holster. “Though at the moment, I’m more focused on where I’m going to go next to get the rest of my stuff for Hogwarts. I’m not sure if you noticed, but it’s organized chaos out there, and I’m using ‘organized’ generously.”

  


Ollivander chuckled at the rather apt description. “Well, if I may suggest, there is a shop three stores down from here that offers a fair selection of trunks and the like. If you are shopping alone, it may behoove you to visit there first, as that will help you carry your purchases so that you may navigate the ‘organized chaos’ more easily.”

  


“Well, I guess that beats trying to stuff everything into my pockets. Thanks!” With that, the boy made his goodbyes and headed for the door, stepping _very_ gingerly around the fallen wands as if expecting them to explode if disturbed. However, before he could turn the doorknob, Ollivander called out to him one last time.

  


“Remember, treat your partner well, and I expect we will see great things from you.”

  


“I will,” the boy assured him, waving goodbye as he stepped out into the street, the bell over the door tinkling one final time as it shut.

  


“Oh yes,” Mr. Ollivander whispered, his misty eyes glowing brightly in the dusky shop, “I expect we shall see _very_ great things from you, Mr. Potter. Very great indeed.” His smile lasted only until his gaze fell onto the broken battlefield that was once his shop, however. “Probably not in the field of housecleaning, though,” he added dryly.

  


* * *

  


The rest of his trip through Diagon Alley passed by in a bit of a blur after visiting Ollivander’s House of Death Sticks. It turned out that when the old wandmaker said “a fair selection of trunks and the like,” what he actually meant was trunks for freaking _days_! That place had trunks made of wood, and trunks made of iron, and trunks that reached as high his shoulders or even no taller than his ankles. He swore he even saw one made of solid gold. It seemed like they had a trunk for every material there was and every bizarre set of proportions imaginable.

  


However, it was the enchanted ones that made his eyes truly shine. They had trunks that floated, and trunks that collapsed. They had some that only opened if you sang a certain tune, and even some sinister-looking ones that only opened after drawing blood. He didn’t ask what those did if someone other than their owner tried opening them. But best of all were the compartment trunks.

  


Turn a key in one lock, and you had access to one compartment, though it looked just like you had simply opened up the entire trunk. Use the second lock, however, and you had access to another compartment entirely, and nothing in the first compartment was affected by anything you did while the second compartment was opened. He set a coin in the first compartment, and it remained exactly where it was when the lid was first closed, even if the trunk was tilted or shook or set upside down. He was utterly fascinated, though the shopkeepers seemed oddly miffed about his experiments. Strange. However, he knew then and there that he absolutely _had_ to figure out how it worked. He just couldn’t resist.

  


He ended up walking out of there with a shrinkable four-compartment trunk with an expanded interior, a _markedly_ lighter money pouch, and more than a few stern lectures about proper store behavior. Joy-kills.

  


From there, he decided he might as well see what the Hogwarts robe situation was like, though he thought the poor seamstresses would have mass heart attacks the moment he walked in the door. That was the first he noticed that his robes still looked like Faraji had made another ill-fated attempt at laundry thanks to his stint as the Wand Shop of Doom. Needless to say, the seamstresses were _very_ eager to help him with his new robes if it meant ending his botched tie-dye look. The very sight of it seemed to give several of them twitches. Although, they seemed strangely surprised that he was starting his first year at Hogwarts when he told them the robes he needed. He didn’t ask, though. Most seemed rather determined to avoid looking anywhere in even the general direction of his robes, which was rather impressive considering that they were sizing him for new robes at the same time, and he didn’t want to break their concentration.

  


He even managed a fairly sizable discount by trying to insist on leaving the store wearing his old robes. The very thought of potential customers seeing someone walk out of their store in robes like that seemed to horrify them beyond measure. He even wondered if he could have pushed it enough to get them to give him his clothes for free in exchange for a simple promise to let them burn his robes, but he figured a half-off discount and a few complimentary sets of “street” robes was good enough, though they insisted that he place his old robes in an entirely separate compartment of his sweet new trunk.

  


Dressed less offensively, or as one of the seamstresses put it, “in robes that don’t make people want to scratch out their eyes and pray for memory loss,” which he thought was just a tad excessive, he headed for the apothecary he noticed earlier. There, he enjoyed the privilege of shopping while inhaling the delightful aroma of rotten eggs and spoiled cabbage, overlaid with just a hint of fried worms. You know, for zest. As curious as he was about potioneering, which the monastery didn’t have, he made sure to collect his purchases and escape to the fresh air outside _very_ expeditiously. Though he was also sure to wear gloves to collect his ingredients. _Seriously. Just so nasty_.

  


Finally, however, he came to the reason everything before that point seemed to blur together.

  


Mother. Freakin’. _Spellbooks_.

  


He completely froze the moment he walked in the door. All he could do was stare at the books filling the shop with eyes the size of dinner plates.

  


Of course, that being all he could do created a bit of a problem.

  


_Okay, you really need to breathe._ He couldn’t stop staring. _Seriously. Breathe_. He began trembling with a mixture of excitement and oxygen deprivation. _BREATHE_.

  


With a trembling gasp, the spell was broken, and he was finally able to start looting– err, _shopping_. Taking a wobbling step over to the nearest shelf, he traced a trembling hand over the spines of the books. All around him were the secrets to wizarding magic, printed out and placed up for sale. His hand flexed with the instinct to simply start sweeping all of the books off the shelves and into his arms.

  


Apparently, he was not alone in his excitement. Deeper inside the shop, he saw one frizzy-haired girl stop and give a loud, triumphant cackle over the pile of books in her cart like a supervillain that had just found the secret to world domination.

  


_Same_ , he agreed, though that sentiment did not seem to be shared by her visibly disturbed parents or any of the other shoppers, who suddenly seemed to find very urgent matters requiring their attention on the opposite side of the store from the still manically giggling girl gently stroking the books in her cart.

  


With the resulting lull in shoppers on his side of the store, he quickly got started. To begin, he collected the books on his list for school, which the shop made easier by sorting several shelves to match the required books for the different years. After that, though, he started getting creative. One of the books on his list, _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ , seemed like an absolute gold mine when he flipped through it, listing spell after spell ranging from the utterly bizarre ( _Turn your nose hair into ringlets? Why in the world …_ ) to the eminently useful ( _Lock-picking spell?! Yes please!_ ), along with their assorted incantations and wand movements, which were apparently how wizards focused their power. Well, given how invaluable that particular book appeared to be, he opted to collect the others for grades six through seven as well in case he got ahead. Besides, he’d apparently need to get them eventually.

  


The transfiguration book on his list also seemed completely fascinating, as that was another branch of magic that the monastery didn’t really have. So, he immediately hunted down more books on its theory and applications, as well as on some of its actual spells. He found himself literally salivating at the thought of learning to harness this type of magic.

  


Hastily wiping his chin, he moved on to another subject tantalized by one of the books on his required reading list.

  


Defence Against the Dark Arts.

  


He caught himself mimicking the girl’s manic giggle more than once as he started exploring the books related to that particular subject. This was what he lived for, after all. _Combat magic_. Curses and hexes and jinxes and shields … this was _exactly_ what he needed to finally have a chance at beating his master once and for all!

  


By the time he reached the section on charms, he was having trouble resisting the urge to give his own triumphant cackle. Of course, his efforts in this matter were somewhat helped by the fact that he was rapidly approaching the depressing threshold where he’d have to decide between books and the prospect of actually eating, as his money pouch was nowhere near as limitless as his obsession with learning wizarding magic was rapidly becoming.

  


He was forced to sit down and give the matter some very serious thought.

  


Eventually, however, he had no choice but to admit that eating was not quite as optional as he wished it could be, and so he was begrudgingly forced to return several books to their shelves, though he was most certainly _not_ crying as he did so. This store was apparently just as shoddily dusted as the ritual chamber back in the monastery.

  


Finally, he arrived at the check-out counter with a persistent sniffle and a still staggeringly large stack of books. The final price ended up almost giving him a heart attack anyway. Still, he ended up paying it, even if the confused clerk had to tug on the final coin a few times for him to actually let it go.

  


Staggering out of the store with knees that were wobbly for a very different reason than when he first entered, he decided it would probably be best to get out of the alley before he had an official break down over how much money he had spent.

  


To that end, he made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, where the smiling old walnut, who was apparently named Tom, was more than happy to rent him a room, if a little curious about the need, and bemused by the need to nearly arm wrestle the kid for one his few remaining coins in payment.

  


As he was showing the financially shell-shocked kid to his room, however, he couldn’t help but speak up. “I thought you said you was meeting people in the alley?” he asked the boy suspiciously, curious about why the kid would need to rent a room.

  


“I did,” the boy answered distractedly, still feeling a twisting cold feeling in his gut from all the money he had spent, and at how little he had left. “I met all kinds of people. I met a slightly crazed wandmaker, and a bunch of fashion nazis, and some inexplicably irritable trunk-store clerks. Just recently, I even officially met you.”

  


Tom had to pause a bit as he wrapped his head around how the boy had twisted his words. “And your claim that you’re not here alone?” he asked with a bemused smile.

  


This time it was the boy who paused to look at Tom incredulously. “Did you see that alley? I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in my life! This is the closest I’ve been to alone since I got here.”

  


Tom snorted in laughter at that. “You’re a pretty strange kid, you know that?”

  


“As if I had a shot at being anything else, given who raised me,” the boy retorted with a far-away grin.

  


Tom simply shook his head in amusement as he opened the door to the kid’s room and left him to get settled.

  


Once alone, however, the kid took one glance at the surprisingly comfortable-looking bed and simply sprawled out on the floor instead.

  


“Oh god …,” he whispered to the ceiling, “so much money …”

  


He palmed his depressingly flat money pouch as he tried to comprehend how he’d spent what was virtually his entire life savings in just one afternoon.

  


“Oh, right,” he whispered with new life as his gaze fell on his trunk. “ _Books_.”

  


And that was the end of his pity party, as he was far too busy throwing himself at the trunk in a desperate fervor to get at the literary treasures he had stored inside. This time, he made no attempt to stifle that cackle that burst free as he started clawing volumes free.

  


He got very little sleep that night.

  


Or the next.

  


Or the next, either, or so he thought. It was difficult to be sure, however. Time kind of just started blurring together as he slowly became surrounded by increasingly precarious piles of sweet, glorious knowledge given physical form.

  


Of course, old Tom the innkeeper was rather insistent on periodically interrupting him for petty things like eating and drinking. Somehow, he didn’t seem to think that absorbing calories through sunlight was a particularly viable method of gaining nutrition, despite the boy’s rather feverish desperation to find a spell to do just that buried somewhere in his little forest of spellbooks, as that would have allowed him to use his dwindling reserves of money to buy even more volumes. It finally took the threat of force-fed pea soup to get the boy to relent and promise to devote time to the annoying trivialities that were basic survival functions. Oddly enough, the old bartender seemed very particular about the phrasing of the boy’s promise, too. Weird.

  


Unfortunately, the boy’s sleepless obsession with combing through his books wasn’t simply due to trying to horde together as many spells as he could.

  


It was because they weren’t working.

  


Almost every time he tried to use his wand to perform one of the charms he found, it backfired. Sometimes the charm would somewhat work in spite of that, but most of the time the wand simply emitted a small burst of wild magical energy that did virtually nothing except raise his stress levels. The spells never worked the way the books said they would. He enunciated the incantations slowly and clearly, still unsure as to exactly how a bunch of words were supposed to affect someone’s magic, and he moved his wand in exactly the same manner as depicted in the diagrams in the book, though he was equally baffled as to how wand movements affected spells either. Still nothing. A simple charm to make a teacup dance ended up producing little more than a light show.

  


He had eyed the rowan wand in his hand more than once, suspecting his failure might have to do with being matched with the wrong wand or something, but every time he started down that train of thought, he flashed back to the wandshop, and that strange field of fire the wand had so briefly sent him to. He still had absolutely no idea what to make of that experience, and he eyed the red-gold wand rather nervously every time he thought about it, but whatever that whole thing was about, he figured he could at least take it for a sign that the wand was his proper match. None of the failed matches had produced anywhere near the same effect, after all. Though he suspected the blackthorn wand would have happily tried if it meant setting him on fire.

  


Accepting that it wasn’t the wand at fault, he turned to the books on theory that he had purchased. In them, he found the answers to exactly none of his questions. Oh sure, they talked about the effect that incantations had on magic, and on how mispronunciation could drastically change the spell’s intended effect, but there was nothing on exactly _how_ or _why_ a bunch of sounds had any effect on magic at all. He found the same level of helpfulness in their discussion on the importance of precise wand movements, as they seemed to simply take it as a given that wand movements _did_ affect spells, and so apparently never devoted thought as to _why_.

  


They proved equally uninformative concerning how a wand made use of and shaped a person’s magic. Given what he read—or rather, what he didn’t—the authors evidently expected this to function automatically, with the only responsibility on the wand-user’s part being that they memorized the incantations and wand movements and repeated them precisely. For someone who had been raised and trained to consciously manipulate his own magic, and thus had no idea how this style worked when operating automatically, he found this more than a little maddening, though he found himself receiving immediate visits from Tom whenever he vocalized this frustration, which resulted in the innkeeper asking rather strange questions like who’d been killing a cat up there and complaining about the customers being disturbed.

  


He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Tom was something of an odd fellow.

  


Similarly, he was also starting to admit that he wasn’t going to be able to learn all he needed to know about wizarding magic hunkered on the floor of a room in a dirty inn, no matter how many teetering stacks of textbooks he surrounded himself with.

  


He needed Hogwarts.

  


Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t _try_ to learn everything before he got there. And so, for the next two weeks, that’s exactly what he did. He read, he tried casting spells, he failed at casting spells, he read some more, he intermittently ate and slept, and on and on he went.

  


Finally, however, September 1st arrived. He was forced to dismantle his various literary towers and sort them all back into his still totally awesome trunk. Along the way, he even found numerous articles of clothing that he had long since assumed had been taken as a sacrifice to the tavern gods. Before long, though, the room had been swept clean of any and all evidence that he had ever been there.

  


Tom seemed fairly relieved to be saying goodbye to him. They got along well, but he had the impression that the old innkeeper had been growing increasingly concerned about his young shut-in tenant. At least, that’s how he interpreted the man virtually begging him to leave the room and get some fresh air, which was such a baffling request, really. He had a window cracked, after all.

  


Regardless, he thanked the man for everything and left to get started making his way to King’s Cross Station, eager to get to Hogwarts so he could finally start unraveling the mystery that was wizarding magic.

  


Stepping out the door, he paused for a moment to place the strange almost-scent he was suddenly overcome by. It was so tantalizingly familiar … _Ah. Fresh air_ , he realized. _Hmm. Maybe there was something to the old bartender’s concern after all_ , he mused.

  


Shrugging, he stepped into an empty alley and opened a portal to the roof above. Once there, he closed his eyes and gathered his power to him, once again letting it build and build in his veins as he prepared to release another pulse to hone in on this “platform nine and three-quarters” place he apparently needed. According to Tom, it was a train platform magically hidden in King’s Cross Station. With that in mind, he released the pulse. He hadn’t noticed the place the first time he tried this when he was looking for the wizarding world, but he’d been distracted by the strong resonance he felt with Diagon Alley at the time. Now that he knew there was another, less potent magical area out there, he hoped he’d be able to sense it.

  


While he was waiting, though, it suddenly occurred to him that he probably could have just asked for directions to the station. He felt fairly embarrassed at the realization, but then he decided that this way was much more fun, and so he returned his focus to finding the resonance.

  


This decision certainly had nothing to do with the embarrassment he’d feel at marching back into the pub and telling the bartender he’d left before finding out where he was going. No, sir.

  


Sure enough, though, he eventually felt a faint echo far in the distance. Grinning, he started traversing the city rooftops once again.

  


As he did, he felt both his magic and his muscles sing in joy. With a sheepish grin, he realized how much he missed being outside and actually using his body, as the cool morning breeze passing over his skin and the feel of slate and gravel bouncing under his feet as he ran from rooftop to rooftop through his portals felt more soothing to him than the smell of Asa’s cooking after a long day’s training. It made sense, though. Much of the monastery was open to the elements, and they’d always stressed the importance of training not just the mind, but the body as well. A lesson he’d apparently forgotten entirely the moment he left.

  


He felt a bit ashamed at the realization. He’d been so caught up in learning this new style of magic that he’d completely discarded everything else that he’d learned, everything else that made him who he was.

  


His jaw clenched in determination. _No more_. He’d do all he could to master this new form of magic, and he’d learn all he could just like the high grandmaster called him to, but he wouldn’t ignore who he was in the process. He may have the power to become a wizard (or at least, so the old man said), but he was a mage, too. That would not change.

  


He wouldn’t let it.

  


With a smile at his new promise, he looked down at the train station, which was absolutely swarming with people milling this way and that. Quickly eyeing the bottom of the building he was standing on, which was currently free of people, he crafted a small portal flush against the rooftop, which he then proceeded to dive into headfirst. The end result was that he appeared to just pop up out of the ground by the base of the building.

  


Walking into the train station, he let himself once again be swept up in the current that was the crowd as he felt himself get closer and closer to the resonance he detected. As he came up on it, he realized it was coming from one of the columns separating platforms nine and ten, which made sense given the platform he was looking for was called nine and three-quarters.

  


On his way there, however, he suddenly stopped dead, allowing his flock of muggles to pass him by. _Was that …_ Turning to his right, he ran his eye over a rather strange-looking man leaning against a nearby wall reading a newspaper. Actually, “looking at” the newspaper may have been more accurate, given that it was upside down.

  


Of course, that had nothing on the bizarreness of the rest of the man’s appearance, as he was dressed in a truly hideous gray suit and insanely bright paisley shirt that seemed to be drawing even more attention than his own robes, which he had forgotten to change out of.

  


With a snort, he stepped up to the man still pretending to read his newspaper. “Hey, Far.”

  


The paper snapped down to reveal the pouting face of his master, though half hidden under a ridiculous bushy gray mustache and topped by an Einstein-ish wig.

  


“How’d you know it was me?” incognito!Faraji whined.

  


The boy ran a flat look over the man’s insane height and distinctive dark skin. “Lucky guess,” he answered dryly.

  


“Damn,” his petulant master frowned. Or at least, that’s what he assumed the man was doing. It was kind of hard to be sure with that mustache. “I was hoping to be able to scare you.”

  


He ran an amused eye over than man’s truly haunting attire. “Mission accomplished.”

  


“Hey, this is a very fashionable suit!” Faraji defended, smoothing his lapels.

  


“No. Just … no,” he eloquently countered.

  


His master huffed. “So, this is the thanks I get for sneaking out of the monastery and coming to see you off? Abuse and ridicule?” The man gave him an outrageous pout, made even more ridiculous by the fuzzy mustache.

  


“Well … yeah,” the boy answered, visibly confused as to how that was even a question.

  


Faraji sighed. “Oh, what must it be like to have a kind and grateful apprentice rather than a snarky little brat?”

  


He gave his master an indignant look. “As if you weren’t completely responsible for making me this way.”

  


“Oh, right, I did,” Faraji answered with a look of beaming realization and pride.

  


He snorted and gave the man a hug. “I’ve missed you, Far.”

  


“I’ve missed you too, kid,” his master replied, tickling him with his absolutely ridiculous mustache.

  


Breaking apart, he eyed the man’s hairpieces. “You know, I’d tell you that I couldn’t take you seriously in that wig and mustache, but I think we both know that taking them off wouldn’t really make much difference in that.”

  


“Alright, you know what, you have officially spent _way_ too much time with Takashi!”

  


He laughed at his now sulking mentor. Unfortunately, that was when he noticed the time. “I should probably get going,” he told the man sadly.

  


Faraji nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  


The boy looked around. “Of course, that would be easier if I had any clue how to get onto the platform. Would it have killed them to put up a sign that said ‘Wizards this way’?”

  


“I could actually help you with that,” Faraji told him with a smile.

  


“You know how to get onto the platform?” he asked in surprise.

  


“Of course,” Faraji replied, taking on an air of mystery and great wisdom. “We at the monastery know a great many things.” Of course, his suit and wig hurt the majestic aura he was shooting for somewhat.

  


“Uh huh,” he responded, unimpressed.

  


“Oh, alright,” his master relented. “I’ve watched a few wand-users get onto the platform while I was waiting for you. A bit hard to miss, actually. A crowd of people with trunks and owls kinda stands out.”

  


“How, then?” he asked.

  


“Simple, really,” his master pointed at a nearby column between platforms nine and ten. “All you have to do is run right at that column. Apparently, it works kind of like a portal or something. Everyone who ran through it just disappeared.”

  


“Thanks, Far,” he told him, giving him one last hug. “Take care of yourself.”

  


“You too, kid. Give ‘em hell at that school,” his master ordered.

  


“I will,” he promised. Turning, he faced the barrier between this part of his life and the next. He didn’t hesitate as he broke out in a run, eager to finally begin.

  


**SMACK**

  


With a groan, the boy stared up at the ceiling from the floor, feeling waves of burning heat radiating from his thoroughly bruised face as a result of bouncing off of what was apparently a completely solid column and not a portal to anywhere. As the room stopped spinning, he realized that he was hearing the sound of very familiar laughter.

  


“FAR!”

  


“Oh, look at that, time to go!” his master managed to get out in between hysterical giggles.

  


By the time he managed to drag himself to his feet, the man was gone as if he’d never been. _Oh, I am_ so _going to kill you_ , he quietly vowed.

  


“You alright, kid?” a concerned passerby asked the seething human tennis ball.

  


“I’m super,” he bitterly assured the man, tenderly feeling his face. Sure, his power would heal it, and he could already feel it getting to work as heat flooded his face like steam from hot soup, but it still hurt. Stalking over to the offending column, he gave it a very intense glare as he let out a small pulse with his magic.

  


Sure enough, it was the _next_ column that resonated with magic, not this one.

  


Petulantly kicking the boring one, he moved over to the _real_ portal, apparently. This time, however, he made sure test it first. Poking the apparently solid barrier, he watched his hand pass through the bricks as if there was nothing there. Slowly, he inched forward, as if expecting the column to turn solid if he moved too fast.

  


Needless to say, it didn’t. Instead, he was treated to a cloud of steam, which parted to reveal a gleaming red train next to a platform filled with what he could only assume were wand-wielders, both young and old. At least, the humans were, he guessed. He somewhat doubted that the cats streaming all over the place had any wizarding talents, but he could be mistaken. He didn’t know their lives.

  


Oh, and look! There was vulture-hat lady! That still cracked him up.

  


Weaving his way through the crowd, he boarded the train, eventually settling in an empty compartment.

  


_So … this is it._ He was finally on his way to Hogwarts. Finally starting the next leg of his journey to master this new branch of magic. Drawing his wand, he idly twirled it as he reflected on everything that had led up to this point. Closing his eyes, he immersed himself in his power, feeling the twirls of heat pulse throughout his body. _It’s almost time_ , he mused. _The next stage of my life, the next part of who I am, and it’s almost here._ He grinned. _I can’t wait_.

  


* * *

  


“Daphne!” Out on the platform, a golden-haired girl with aristocratic features was suddenly assaulted by a tiny mass of auburn-haired enthusiasm.

  


“Hello, Tracey,” the assaultee replied in her usual monotone. Or at least, so she tried. The pressure around her ribs forced a bit of a higher pitch to her low voice than normal.

  


Her unenthusiastic response was met by a glare from the large brown eyes of her attacker. “That’s all I get? ‘Hello, Tracey’? We haven’t seen each other in forever!”

  


Daphne raised an eyebrow. “We saw each other in the alley yesterday.”

  


“Oh, right,” Tracey sheepishly realized, before renewing her assault. “We haven’t seen each other since yesterday!” she happily amended as she tried to squeeze the somber girl like a squeaky toy.

  


“Daphne, calm down. You’re embarrassing yourself,” an amused voice said from nearby.

  


Tracey disentangled herself from the human statue and threw herself at their visitor. “Blaise!”

  


The dark-skinned girl smiled over the tangle of red-brown hair. “Oh, you’re here too, Tracey? I didn’t realize. I just assumed Daphne was being mauled by a very large cat.”

  


“That would not be inaccurate,” the frosty girl spoke up.

  


“Hello, girls,” a male voice drawled. As one, the girls stiffened.

  


“Hello, Draco,” Blaise cordially replied, though there was not mistaking her tone for warmth or welcome.

  


“Draco,” Daphne greeted him as well. However, if Blaise’s reply contained a notable absence of warmth, then Daphne’s was ice incarnate, though her expression still seemed utterly impassive.

  


Draco Malfoy, however, was somehow undeterred. “Come now, Daphne. You can do better than that,” he told her with a smug look on his pointed face.

  


Over the boy’s slight shoulders, Daphne could see Malfoy Senior speaking with her father, who was looking over at her expectantly. Swallowing, she smoothly extended her hand. Smiling even more broadly, Draco took her hand and placed a lingering kiss on her knuckles.

  


Her arm spasmed slightly, but her expression remained as cool as ever.

  


“I look forward to seeing you on the train,” he told her with a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

  


“I’m sure,” Daphne replied with a tone so frosty it was surprising that everyone on the platform wasn’t suddenly reaching for their cloaks.

  


Malfoy, of course, remained as oblivious as ever. “Blaise,” he nodded to the dark-skinned girl.

  


“Draco,” she nodded, making a gamely attempt at Daphne’s level of iciness.

  


Turning, Malfoy cast a sneering look up and down Tracey, giving a visible shudder before walking away.

  


“Oh, _hell_ no!” the half-blood girl muttered with a furious look on her face, making to seize Malfoy, though she was stopped by Blaise and Daphne desperately grabbing her before she assaulted the Malfoy scion right in front of his father.

  


“Let it go, Trace. He’s not worth it,” Blaise pleaded.

  


“Understatement,” Daphne assured the struggling girl held between them. “Please, Tracey. Don’t do this.”

  


After one last attempt to free herself, the small girl relented. “Fine,” she snapped. “But if he tries that crap at Hogwarts, I’m kicking his ass!”

  


Daphne sighed in relief. “I suppose we’ll jump off that bridge when we get to it.” She and Blaise let go of her. However, while Blaise focused on helping straighten up Tracey’s clothes from their brief wrestling match, Daphne stiffened and slowly turned to face her father. The man’s face was as devoid of emotion as it ever was, but he couldn’t mask his eyes.

  


They were thunderous.

  


Swallowing, Daphne hastily regained her poise, clasping her hands and returning her face to its slightly bored expression. _I’m going to pay for that_ , she reflected with an internal wince. Still, she couldn’t have allowed Tracey to attack Malfoy. That would have been suicide for the girl. Not that such an excuse would tread much water with her father, who contemptuously disapproved of her friendship with the half-blood girl just on sheer principle. _I’m sorry, Tori_ , she mentally apologized as she watched her father sharply turn his back and stride away, undoubtedly heading home.

  


“Hey, you okay?” Blaise asked, gently placing her hand on her shoulder.

  


“I am well,” Daphne flatly assured her, forcing her hands to unclench.

  


Blaise looked at what her friend was watching. “It’ll be okay, Daph,” she assured her.

  


“Yeah,” the blonde-haired girl quietly lied.

  


Tracey, of course, responded to the situation with a rib-crushing hug.

  


Daphne quietly snorted. “Yes, thank you Tracey.”

  


Tracey beamed at her.

  


“Alright, we should really move this onto the train before we end up having to sit on the roof,” Blaise informed them.

  


“Really?” Tracey asked with wide, hopeful eyes.

  


Daphne rolled her eyes. “No, Tracey, they won’t allow first-years to ride to Hogwarts on top of the train.” Tracey looked utterly heartbroken at the news.

  


“Yeah, that’s not allowed until second year,” Blaise called back over her shoulder, already dragging her trunk towards the train.

  


“Blaise!”

  


The girl simply laughed as the others followed her onto the train.

  


Once on-board, they were treated to the delightful sound of Malfoy’s drawling voice drifting out of an open cabin towards the front of the train. With one shared look, they collectively turned and began heading in the opposite direction.

  


As they looked for an empty cabin, however, Tracey drew up short as she stared into one. “Is he … sleeping?” she asked with a giggle.

  


Curious, Daphne and Blaise looked in the window. Inside, they saw a rather fit-looking boy with buzzed short black hair. Sure enough, though, his head was lowered and his eyes were closed.

  


“I think he is,” Blaise quietly laughed.

  


“He’s kinda cute,” Tracey mused before turning to the others with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Let’s poke him with a stick!”

  


Blaise came down in giggles at the idea, which left Daphne to be the voice of reason yet again. “No, Tracey, we are not going to poke the sleeping boy with a stick.” Tracey pouted.

  


“Yeah, Trace,” Blaise chimed in, still giggling. “We’re not going to poke someone with a boring old _stick_. What are we, muggles? That’s what _wands_ are for!”

  


This response left the two of them giggling uncontrollably as Daphne rolled her eyes and gave a put-upon sigh, though her lips twitched in the faint beginnings of a smile.

  


“Well at least let me wake him up,” Tracey compromised, opening the door before anyone could say anything.

  


Of course, it was at that moment that they realized that the boy was very much awake, because at the sound of the door opening, his eyes shot open and he turned to stare at the three girls huddled in his doorway.

  


On its own, that wouldn’t have been too memorable, but that wasn’t all there was to it. Those eyes were filled with a swirling green light that made it seem like they were staring straight through them. Not a word was spoken as he fixed them with his glowing gaze. It even seemed like everyone was holding their breath, too frozen to move even that much. Finally, though, after a moment that seemed like was stretched into a thousand, he shook his head and placed his hand to his temple as the mystic glow faded from his eyes, leaving only a mundane, albeit very vibrant, green sheen.

  


Blinking, he turned a slightly disoriented look the girls’ way. “Can I help you?”

  


“How’d you do that?” Tracey demanded with a slightly awestruck tone as she stepped into the boy’s compartment.

  


“Do … what?” the boy asked in visible confusion, apparently slightly disconcerted with the way the red-haired girl was staring into his eyes as if searching for something.

  


“That thing with your eyes!” she insisted.

  


The boy blinked at her. “Uh … blinking? Well, it’s not too hard, I guess. You just close your eyes really really quickly. Like this!” He gave an exaggerated blink.

  


With a snicker, Blaise stepped into the compartment. “I think she meant the thing where your eyes were glowing like torches,” she explained.

  


The boy cocked his head. “My eyes weren’t glowing.”

  


“Were too,” Tracey argued.

  


“Were not!”

  


“Were too!”

  


“Alright,” Daphne stepped in to interrupt what looked like the beginnings of a lively debate, “perhaps we should just leave the boy to his … _blinking_.”

  


“Nu-uh,” Tracey protested. “I’m not leaving until he tells us how he did the freaky eye-glowing thing,” she informed them, plopping down into the seat next to the boy.

  


“I did not do a freaky eye-glowing thing,” the boy insisted.

  


“Did too!”

  


“Did not!”

  


“Oh, god,” Daphne whispered in horror. “There’s two of them.”

  


Blaise chuckled. “Well, we do need to sit somewhere,” she said with a shrug, dragging her trunk into the compartment.

  


At the sight, the boy momentarily ceased his verbose discussion with Tracey to help Blaise with her trunk.

  


“Thank you,” Blaise told him with an exaggerated eyelash flutter.

  


“No problem,” he answered, not really noticing her response, or how quiet it got as they watched him lift a fairly heavy trunk and slide it into the overhead compartment without any apparent effort whatsoever.

  


Daphne quietly watched him do the same for Tracey’s trunk. He was taller than she first thought. She pegged him as likely a second or third year, though she was uncertain what he was doing in the section of the train that, as she understood it, was typically reserved for first years. Reaching her, she realized that he was wordlessly asking if she wanted him to do the same for her trunk. Stepping aside, she watched him lift her own trunk and place it overhead, though she also noticed that theirs were the only ones up there. _Curious_.

  


“Thank you,” the impassive-looking girl told him. “And I apologize for our friend’s lack of manners in simply barging in.” Tracy, ever-ready with a witty retort, blew a raspberry at her. “I suppose introductions are in order,” she continued as she delicately took a seat next to Blaise across from the boy and Tracey. “My name is Daphne Greengrass,” she introduced herself, to which he responded not by reaching out to take her hand, but by giving what looked like a small, practiced bow from his seat.

  


“I’m Blaise Zabini,” the Italian girl by her side introduced herself. “A pleasure to meet you.” The boy gave another small bow.

  


“Hey. I’m Tracey!” the bubbly girl sitting next to the boy introduced herself with a grin and a small wave. Daphne resisted the urge to facepalm at the greeting, while Blaise happily giggled next to her.

  


“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” the boy said with a smile. “My name is Shen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Another chapter done, and finally we’re getting to the good stuff! Now, for those of you concerned or unhappy about his name, rest assured, he will be going by Harry for most of the story. Other than that, let me know what you think, and see you next time!


	6. Never feed the Traceys after midnight

“Shen?” Tracey asked, cocking her head. “That’s a funny name.”

  


The forenamed Shen gave her an offended look. “You’re a funny name!”

  


“Ah, I see we are beginning the ‘witty rejoinders’ portion of the ride,” Daphne dryly commented. “What a relief. For a moment, I was afraid we were in danger of a stimulating conversation.”

  


“Don’t worry, Daphne,” Blaise comforted her, gently patting the girl’s hand, “I don’t think there’s too much threat of that in here.” Daphne rolled her eyes at her snickering friend.

  


Tracey, meanwhile, felt that actions spoke louder than words, and so stuck her tongue out at Daphne.

  


Luckily for Daphne, however, she was spared the unbearable pressure of finding a way to respond to what was clearly the perfect retort by the train beginning to move. Everyone turned to watch out the window as the platform began to slide past. Shen even noticed one half-laughing, half-crying redheaded girl on the platform apparently trying to race the train. He had to give the edge to the train, though. She had terrible running form.

  


Sure enough, both she and the rest of the station soon fell away as the train picked up speed, carrying them away to … _wait a minute_. “Where the devil is Hogwarts, anyways?” he asked his cabin-mates.

  


The other two seemed to find his question amusing, while Daphne just seemed to find it peculiar. “How do _you_ of all people not know where the school is?” she asked.

  


Now it was Shen with a puzzled look on his face. “What’s that supposed to mean? Why should I know where the school is better than someone else?”

  


“But you’r–wait a minute, what year are you?”

  


“First year,” Shen replied, visibly surprised by the question, just as everyone else looked surprised by his answer, though Daphne masked hers fairly well and managed to simply look slightly less bored.

  


“You’re a first year?” Tracey blurted out.

  


“Well … yeah,” he confirmed, still slightly off balance from the confusion this fact was generating.

  


“How old are you?” Blaise demanded.

  


“First-year age,” he answered uninformatively. “Why do you all seem so surprised by this?”

  


“I … thought you were older,” the Italian-looking girl told him.

  


“I thought you were a third year or something,” Tracey chimed in.

  


“… Huh,” he responded verbosely.

  


Blaise smiled at that. “See, Daphne? No danger of scintillating conversation in this cabin. You can rest easy.”

  


“How comforting,” she said wryly. “It is good to know that the next several hours won’t be _too_ exciting. A person can only handle so much, you understand.”

  


Shen turned to Tracey. “She can be a little snooty, can’t she?” he asked her with a smile, nodding at the blonde, who looked rather unimpressed by the question.

  


Tracey seemed to love it, though. “If by ‘a little,’ you mean ‘a lot,’ and if by ‘can be,’ you mean ‘absolutely always is,’ then yes,” she told the boy with a grin.

  


“She’s not exactly wrong,” Blaise mused aloud.

  


Daphne huffed. “As if you’re one to talk, Zabini!”

  


“How dare you speak to me that way, you peasant?!” Blaise snapped with her nose in the air, though she couldn’t quite keep the laugh out of her voice.

  


Daphne’s eyes bulged slightly, which was rather amusing given that the rest of her face was still frozen in her mask of aloofness. “Peasan– … My family could buy out yours three times over, Zabini!” Of course, her voice wasn’t quite as controlled as her face was.

  


Shen stared in amusement as the two girls continued their bickering before turning back to Tracey and nodding at the two of them questioningly.

  


“Pretty much always, yeah,” Tracey answered his unspoken question. “Blaise just does it to rile up Daph, though. She thinks it’s funny when little miss ‘Ice Queen’ loses her cool.” Grinning broadly, she turned back to the show. “She’s not wrong.”

  


Unfortunately, that was when her entertainment ended, as Daphne had apparently heard her. She gave the auburn-haired girl an impressively frosty glare before schooling her slightly reddened features back to their impassive state.

  


“Aww,” Blaise silently complained, sad that her fun had ended, though her disappointment seemed slightly ameliorated with the icy glower she earned for herself.

  


Shen received one too for good measure, which he deemed fair, considering that he was actually in the process of opening his mouth to join in on the fun of provoking the regal-looking girl at the time. At that glare, however, he decided that he much preferred life, and so he remained quiet.

  


Tracey seemed tragically disappointed to see it.

  


“Well, Miss Greengrass,” Blaise began, “since you’re the one who keeps complaining about the quality of the conversation, why don’t you start us off, then?”

  


Daphne’s eyes gleamed. “With pleasure,” she acquiesced in clear satisfaction. “Shen,” she continued, turning to said boy, “Where are you from?”

  


He raised his eyebrow at the clear look of weighing and measuring in her eyes. “China,” he answered.

  


“Really?” Tracey asked in clear fascination.

  


“Yep,” he confirmed.

  


“What was that like?” Blaise asked curiously.

  


Shen shrugged. “Like home, I guess. I don’t have a whole lot to compare it too.”

  


However, while Blaise and Tracey exhibited clear signs of normal curiosity and interest, Daphne never lost her measuring look, as if she was drinking in every detail he shared about himself so she could figure out what made him tick … and how she could make use of him. _This is not a girl to underestimate_ , he noted with an internal smile.

  


“And what house do you expect to be a part of?” she continued, still staring at him intently.

  


“Umm … the kind with walls and a roof, ideally,” he answered, not quite sure what she was talking about. Tracey let out an indelicate snort of laughter at his reply.

  


Daphne, however, was not deterred. “You _do_ know of Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff, right?” She seemed slightly at a loss for his apparent confusion.

  


Shen, meanwhile, simply stared at the girl as she just suddenly started spewing nonsense. He leaned over to the redhead at his side. “Did she just have a stroke or something?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth in a quiet tone that absolutely everyone heard anyway.

  


Tracey cracked up in loud laughter at the question, and Blaise seemed to be fighting to keep from joining her. At least, that’s how he interpreted her violent shaking as she desperately held a hand over her mouth. It was possible she simply had a particularly violent case of rapid-onset hiccups.

  


Daphne, on the other hand, was clearly nothing less than irritated and confused, mask or no mask. “You … really don’t know about Slytherin? Ravenclaw? _Hufflepuff?_ ”

  


His face took on an expression of extreme befuddlement. “What the hell is a Hufflepuff?”

  


At that question, the hiccups v laughter question was answered, as Blaise finally gave up the ghost and joined Tracey in laughing uncontrollably.

  


Daphne’s mouth dropped open slightly in shock at his complete ignorance of some of the most famous names in magical history, but even her lips twitched slightly in the beginnings of a smile at his question.

  


Once everyone had regained control of themselves—except for Blaise, who seemed to have come down with the hiccups _from_ laughing, meaning his original guess was sort of half right—Daphne began trying to educate their apparently ignorant cabin-mate. “Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff are the names of four houses into which students are sorted at Hogwarts,” she patiently—if somewhat condescendingly—explained. “They are named after the four founders of the school, some of the greatest witches and wizards of history, and each of their houses is associated with various traits and qualities against which new students are screened.”

  


“And exactly what are these traits?” he asked the girl, curious to hear her opinion on the houses and their qualities.

  


“Oh, here we go,” Tracey muttered.

  


Daphne ignored her. “Ravenclaw claims to represent wisdom. Its students vaunt themselves on their magical knowledge, pursuing it beyond anything else in life. They are your typical bookworms and teacher’s pets.”

  


“Ah, the unbiased version, I see,” Blaise commented with a wry smile.

  


“Hey, he asked, and I’m explaining. Now hush,” Daphne retorted. “Gryffindor worships mindless bravery. Its students tend to be mostly about showboating and sports. And being loud.”

  


“ _Clearly_ nothing but objective facts here,” a grinning Tracey agreed with Blaise.

  


“Slytherin,” Daphne continued, ignoring her commentators, “prides itself on cunning and ambition. Its members are those who possess a certain drive to achieve. They use their time at school not just to learn magic like the Ravenclaws or to goof around like the Gryffindors, but to make connections that will enable them to further their goals in life.”

  


“Gee, I wonder which house you prefer,” Shen remarked in amusement.

  


“A true mystery, that is,” Blaise laughed.

  


“Yep. Clearly a closet Gryffindor,” Tracey joined in, snickering at Daphne’s almost-expression at that statement.

  


“Wait a minute, you forgot Jigglypuff,” Shen realized, to a chorus of laughter.

  


“Huffle– … _Hufflepuff_ ,” a breathlessly giggling Blaise corrected.

  


“Oh, right, because that name is _so_ much less ridiculous,” he pointed out. “What was I thinking?”

  


“Well, Hufflepuffs do tend to get forgotten,” Daphne said in answer to his original question. “They’re really just your basic house of leftovers.”

  


“Daph,” Tracey scolded the girl, since Blaise seemed too amused to do so.

  


Daphne sighed. “Fine. The _great_ and _noble_ house of Hufflepuff places great value on the qualities of loyalty and hard work,” she explained in a sarcastically pompous tone of voice. “Their students are generally known for being … well, nice.”

  


“See, Daphne? That wasn’t too hard.” Blaise patted her proudly on the shoulder. The blonde rolled her eyes at the gesture and opened her mouth to retort.

  


Unfortunately, they never got a chance to see how the stoic girl would react to this latest attempt attempt at nettling, because at that moment, the door was opened by some uninvited guests.

  


“Well, well, well,” a rather pale-faced boy obnoxiously greeted from the doorway, where he was flanked by what appeared to be two poorly carved statues dressed up in robes. _No, wait, I think those are students_ , Shen mentally corrected as he saw one breathing through his mouth. _Yeesh. If those two are indicative of the quality of my classmates at this school, then this is going to be a rather unpleasant year_.

  


However, he also noticed that the girls in the compartment had universally stiffened as the trio made their appearance, but rather than the two robed masses flanking the doorway, their attention was solely centered on the somewhat weaselly looking boy with greased-back platinum hair standing in front. _Interesting_.

  


“Daphne,” the boy drawled as if trying to imitate a smooth, lazy manner of speaking, but instead coming across as if he’d had one too many drinks before stumbling into their cabin. _Actually, I hope that’s exactly what happened_ , he mused with an internal grin at the thought of a drunk 11-year-old wizard.

  


“I thought you were going to join me in my cabin,” the boy slurred, staring rather heatedly at the somewhat stiffer than usual blonde girl.

  


“You thought? I hope the experience did not strain you overmuch,” the girl coolly replied. “I know how vexing those headaches with pictures can be for those unpracticed with them.”

  


The boy’s eyes seemed to bulge at that, while Shen just stared at the girl in wonder. _I think I love this girl_ , he thought with a laugh.

  


Of course, that laugh drew the slight boy’s attention to himself for the first time. “Who is this, then?” he demanded. “Some stray you’ve picked up?” Shen wondered if he was actually trying to block out the sight of all of them with his nostrils, he was raising his chin so far.

  


“I do not believe it is any business of yours with whom I sit,” Daphne frostily replied, still looking bored with the situation, though her clenched hand suggested otherwise.

  


“Well, I think it _is_ my business,” the boy snapped. “In fact, I don’t think I like the idea of other men sharing your cabin.” Shen’s eyebrows raised. _Is this idiot serious right now?_

  


Blaise spoke up for the first time. “The way you said ‘ _other_ men’ implies that you think _you_ are one.” She gave a rather vicious smile. “That’s adorable.”

  


Maybe-Drunk-Boy, however, was definitely less than pleased. “How dare you speak to me that way?!” he demanded. “If I want you to open your mouth around me, I will _pay_ you, you daughter of a whore!”

  


Blaise looked like she had been struck, and even Daphne gasped at the boy’s words, while Tracey, who had been demonstrating admirable restraint up until that point (mostly by avoiding any and all eye contact with the intruders and doing her level best to pretend they weren’t there), seemed like she was about to launch herself at the weaselly little boy. However, they all paused as Shen stood up.

  


“What? You have something to say to me?” the arrogant boy asked smugly. However, he took an involuntary step back as Shen slowly and smoothly strode up to him.

  


“I believe you need to apologize,” he quietly informed the boy in a cold, scintillating tone of voice.

  


The boy looked surprised and slightly nervous at the tone, but then arrogant anger colored his pale features. “Don’t you know who I am?” he demanded.

  


“I don’t care who you are,” Shen explained, still in the smooth, icy tone.

  


The boy’s mouth seemed to struggle to make a dozen different outraged claims at once. “I am Draco Malfoy! Heir to the Malfoy name and fortune! Scion of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight!”

  


“And right now, Heir to the Malfoy name, you have an apology to make,” Shen responded unimpressed, never breaking eye contact with the nearly apoplectic boy.

  


Malfoy’s jaw dropped at the temerity of this nobody. However, his eyes quickly took on a dark gleam. “You know what? I think you’ve overstayed your welcome in this cabin. _And_ around Daphne. But don’t worry, Crabbe and Goyle will see you out.” Jerking his head at the two human statues, he stepped back, content to let his bodyguards handle his fighting for him. Shen’s eyes narrowed at the smug-looking boy. _He’s truly_ that _worthless …_ he thought in amazement.

  


However, their fight or not, the two burly boys stepped forward. _So be it._

  


As they balled up their fists and cocked their arms back, he stepped forward, catching them by surprise, as they expected the comparatively smaller boy to retreat to the far side of the cabin. However, their surprise didn’t hold them for long, as they proceeded to throw their first punches with ham-like fists.

  


Neither touched him, as he smoothly and almost lazily swayed away from both of them. Continuing his movement, he stepped between the two surprised boys, who, now looking angry, tried again to hit him.

  


These efforts didn’t succeed any better than their first attempt. Flowing like a blade of grass in the wind, Shen bent and leaned away from the boys’ amateurish, broadcasted movements, as each boy apparently felt it necessary to cock his arm back as far as he could before striking, evidently oblivious to how that slowed them down and practically shouted out their targets to their now slightly contemptuous opponent.

  


Of course, their efforts weren’t exactly helped by the blows they themselves kept taking. Not from Shen, though. He still hadn’t bothered to lift his arms from his sides. But, in those close quarters, and with the quick-footed target positioned between the two of them, their increasingly enraged punches kept carrying through to hit their counterpart.

  


Eventually, Shen simply weaved his way out from between them, as the two fairly simple boys had by that point devolved into a flat-out brawl, completely forgetting their original opponent in their fury at constantly being punched by each other.

  


“Stop! _Stop!_ What are you idiots doing?!” Malfoy demanded in a fury, breaking up the now slightly bruised and bloodied thugs. “Fight him, not each other!”

  


Blinking slowly, the two panting boys realized they had been tricked by the boy still standing impassively off to the side. Their faces twisting in fury, they turned on him once more.

  


“You don’t want to do that,” Shen coldly and quietly warned them.

  


They ignored him.

  


Frowning slightly in disappointment, he felt the warmth of his power under his skin. As one snarling boy threw his fist with all his furious weight behind it, Shen drew more deeply on his magic, feeling his muscles tighten and hearing his bones faintly creak. The boy’s fist struck Shen’s face … and his head moved back all of a quarter inch, which was exactly _not_ what you wanted to happen with something you had just punched with your bare hand.

  


Shen’s sharp ears caught the sound of cracking from the boy’s fist as several bones in his hand shattered under all the force being driven into them as they struck a nearly unmoving object. The suddenly ghostly pale boy snapped his ruined hand back to his chest, but before he could start screaming, Shen struck for the first time, snapping out his hand to give the boy a quick blow to the throat to paralyze his vocal cords and stop the scream dead in its tracks. The now choking and pain-fogged boy collapsed to his knees, trying to cradle both his mangled right hand and his throat with his one remaining good hand, but Shen ignored him. The next boy, oblivious to his partner’s plight, continued the attack.

  


This time, Shen stepped and swayed forward and to the side to allow the boy’s fist to carry past him. However, instead of simply making the boy miss, he grabbed the boy’s arm with his hand and pivoted, driving his other fist into the side of the boy’s now unprotected rib cage, and more specifically, to the short ribs near the bottom.

  


The young thug’s eyes bulged out in wordless pain from the blow as he collapsed to his knees cradling his cracked rib.

  


Shen ignored him as well, turning his attention instead to the now even paler boy standing near the doorway. Malfoy hastily backpedaled as he approached, but Shen didn’t lay a hand on him.

  


“Your apology?” he quietly asked the shorter boy.

  


Malfoy swallowed heavily. “S-sorry,” he croaked, turning his head to Blaise slightly, but never taking his eyes off of Shen.

  


Shen reached out, causing the boy to flinch heavily, but he simply opened the door.

  


“I think it’s time you and your lackeys leave,” he informed the wide-eyed boy.

  


Malfoy swallowed. “C-Crabbe, Goyle,” he called out to the whimpering boys in a slightly shaky voice. Those boys, thick though they may be, could certainly not be called anything less than loyal, as they immediately dragged themselves to their feet and hobbled out the door, though one was bent nearly double to soothe his fractured rib while the other sheet-white boy wavered as if about to pass out from the pain in his hand, which he now seemed in too much shock to scream about.

  


However, as Malfoy made to join them, Shen’s hand snapped out to slam into the doorframe an inch in front of his face to block his passage, making the door rattle in its tracks as the now thoroughly twitchy boy jumped nearly a foot. The boy turned wide, frightened eyes to meet the disturbingly cold and dark green eyes of Shen.

  


“Draco Malfoy,” he slowly and quietly intoned, sill in the low, sibilant whisper, “the next time you sic your flunkies on me without even having the common _decency_ to fight me yourself, you and I will be having words.” He leaned closer to Malfoy. “And believe you me, they will be very short, and very … _very …_ thorough.” His point made, he lowered his arm, allowing the slightly unsteady boy to quickly step past.

  


Once in the corridor, the less-than-wise child seemed like he started to gather courage again, and so he turned to make one last retort. However, his words caught in his throat as the door to the compartment slowly started to slide shut, without a single hand on the door, and without Shen ever breaking eye contact with him. The blonde-haired boy flinched as the latch clicked shut. For a long heartbeat, he simply stood there staring at Shen through the window. Eventually, however, he managed to look away. Jerking his head at his two injured bodyguards, he retreated to his own cabin, seething and afraid.

  


Back in the cabin, however, three girls stared wide-eyed as their strange cabin-mate simply plopped back into his seat as if nothing had happened.

  


“Friend of yours, I take it?” he asked in his normal, perpetually amused tone.

  


Silence answered him.

  


“Ah, I see. Thank you for clearing that up,” he said with a wry grin.

  


The cabin remained silent.

  


His brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

  


“Oh, don’t ‘what’ us, you know what you did!” Blaise exclaimed.

  


“Where’d you learn to do that?” Tracey demanded, looking at him with eyes that, improbable though it seemed, actually looked even bigger than they normally did.

  


“Do what, exactly?” Shen asked with a small smile.

  


“You know, that whole … whooshing around thing you did!” Tracey helpfully explained.

  


He frowned. “I did not whoosh,” he argued.

  


“Yes you did! There was total whooshing! And then there was big dumb idiots hitting the ground crying!” she enthusiastically summarized.

  


“Hey, they did most of that to themselves,” he countered.

  


“How did you learn to fight like that?” the dusky girl across from him interrogated a bit more intelligibly.

  


“That wasn’t fighting,” Shen explained. “That was embarrassing. Those two idiots had no idea what they were doing. And the less said about Sir Flounce in the doorway, the better.”

  


At that, however, he cut off, as he suddenly had a tiny hand gently pressing against his face. “What are you doing?” he asked the hand’s owner.

  


“Goyle hit you in the face,” she explained. “I saw it. I was just trying to see if you were hurt–” she cut off abruptly as she realized what she was feeling. “You’re hot!” she exclaimed.

  


Blaise snickered at the exclamation, while Shen turned to look at the girl beside him with an amused look in his eyes. “Thanks. You’re pretty attractive yourself.”

  


Blaise laughed harder at that, while a blushing Tracey suddenly jerked her hand away. “I didn’t mean like _that_!” she clarified in a panic. “Well, I mean, _yeah_ , but …” the flustered girl stopped again as Blaise almost fell out of her seat from laughing at her backpedaling. “I mean you’re _warm_! Temperature-wise!” she finally got out, reaching out to feel his shoulder. “You feel like when my dad would hand me clothes straight from the dryer,” she quietly said, still gently and oddly touching his magically heated arm. “I used to grab whole armloads of them and just curl up in a ball buried in the warm laundry. Mum always complained and had to do charms and stuff to unwrinkle them afterwards, but it was totally worth it.” By this point, she had completely wrapped herself around his arm and was nuzzling into his warm shoulder like a cat as she reminisced.

  


“Umm … Tracey?” Shen asked in bemusement at the girl’s odd behavior.

  


“Hush,” she mumbled from his shoulder.

  


However, while Tracey tried to hug his magic-warmed arm even tighter and Blaise giggled at her friend’s behavior, Shen realized that Daphne had been oddly quiet for some time. Turning to look at the stoic girl, he found her staring at him with almost unnerving intensity, clearly weighing and judging him once more as she looked from where her friend was wrapped around his arm to his completely unbruised face, despite the rather powerful blow the massive human statue had landed. She then turned to the door, where he could practically see her running through their encounter from earlier, and the ease with which he had dispatched both large boys and intimidated Malfoy.

  


Her face when she turned back to him was completely unreadable, even more so than usual. Before anyone could speak, however, the door to their compartment opened once more. This time, though, it wasn’t the three goons. It was a tall, older, redheaded boy with a rather bossy demeanor and a burnished silver badge displayed prominently on his puffed-out chest, though why anyone would be so proud of a badge that said “Prissy” was an utter mystery.

  


“Excuse me,” the boy began in an impressively snooty tone of voice, “but I’ve heard rumors that there has been fighting in the vicinity of this compartment. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  


“And who are you supposed to be?” Daphne asked the intruder frostily.

  


The boy puffed himself up, drawing further attention to his Prissy badge. “ _I_ am a prefect, and you would do well to mind your tone, girl,” he told her acidly.

  


Shen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you would do well to mind your own,” he told the pompous boy. “Where I come from, girls are spoken to with respect. Even if they don’t quite return the courtesy.” He added the last part while giving Daphne a pointed look, who looked subtly amused by his scolding.

  


“I am not here to be lectured by underclassmen,” Prissy the Prefect snapped. “I am here investigating rumors of a fight. Now, do you know anything?”

  


“I know a lot of things,” Shen answered with a wry grin. “I know that there are 206 bones in the adult human body. I know that one should never order the pea soup at the Leaky Cauldron unless they have officially decided to abandon their mortal coil. I also know that your badge has been charmed to read ‘Prissy’ instead of ‘Prefect.’ Does any of that help you?” he finished with an innocent look on his face.

  


Prissy was not happy. “You–” he cut off as he registered what the annoying boy had said before snapping his eyes down to his prefect badge, if it could even be called such anymore. “FRED! GEORGE!” Their resident prefect stormed off without another word.

  


“Well, that was rather rude, wasn’t it?” Shen asked the compartment with a grin. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

  


“Are you surprised?” Daphne asked. “He couldn’t even be bothered to introduce himself before demanding information. That is courtesy at its most basic, and as the son of an old pureblood family, he should have known that.”

  


Shen blinked at that. “Wait, you knew who he was, and yet you still got snippy with him for not introducing himself?” Tracey snorted at the question from where she was still buried in his shoulder.

  


“It is basic courtesy,” Daphne repeated slowly, as if it was obvious. “I knew who he was, but we had never met. Ergo, it was proper for him to introduce himself. _Before_ barging in and interrogating us.”

  


Shen turned to Blaise questioningly. “She’s kinda nuts about propriety,” the girl explained. “Course, I don’t think it helps that she doesn’t like his family.”

  


“I never said that I don’t like them,” Daphne countered. “I just don’t care for their holier-than-thou attitude, their complete disrespect for our culture or any who seek to preserve it, and their absolute _eagerness_ to condemn any magic they don’t understand after a ten-second discussion as ‘ _dark’_ and ‘ _evil_.’”

  


“Yeah, in English, we call that ‘not liking someone,’” Blaise explained with a grin.

  


Daphne thought for a moment, and then she shrugged. “Then fine, I don’t like them.”

  


Shen looked down at the human kitten snuggled into his robes. “You want to get in on this, Trace? Scintillating conversation with a chance to provoke Daphne, here,” he tempted her.

  


Tracey groaned and blindly placed a hand over his face to shush him. “Laundry doesn’t talk,” she mumbled.

  


However, while Shen was coming to terms with what was apparently his new role in life, their door was knocked on by yet _another_ visitor. Thankfully, this one was far more welcome than either of their previous guests had been.

  


It was an old woman with a candy trolley, and this was an exciting revelation for Shen, as it had been several hours since his last meal, having completely forgotten breakfast back at the Leaky Cauldron in his eagerness to get here. What’s more, now that he wasn’t pouring over books like he was trying to find the meaning of life buried in their pages ( _stupid useless books and stupid, stupid magic that didn’t work the way it was supposed to_ ), he cared rather deeply about things like food, meaning that pile of sugary goodness looked more than a little tempting, even for someone with only a handful of gold left to his name.

  


The problem? His money pouch, laughable though the name may be at this point, was in his left pocket.

  


The pocket Tracey was currently smushed against.

  


He tried maneuvering his left arm to get it, but the snuggling girl had such a death grip on the thing that by this point, he could barely feel anything more than burning pins where his arm used to be, meaning that fine-tuned motor control was officially a pipe dream.

  


“Trace?” he tried getting her attention as the two other girls got up to make their own purchases. “Trace, I kinda need my arm back. The trolley’s here.” The girl groaned angrily and somehow wrapped herself even more tightly around his arm. _Well, there goes the rest of the circulation._ “Please, Trace? I’m so hungry right now.”

  


“Mflethl mthm,” Tracey succinctly answered into his shoulder.

  


He eyed the trolley lady sadly. With a brokenhearted sigh, he turned back to his new growth. “Alright, we can negotiate on the trolley situation, but blood-flow is kinda important.” No response. “Trace?” Nothing.

  


He sighed again. _That’s fine, I guess_ , he thought as all feeling in his arm rapidly faded away. _I didn’t exactly need two arms. I can make it in life just fine with one_. With a teary gaze, he watched the trolley lady move on as the two girls moved back into the compartment, Blaise with a tauntingly large pile of sweets in her arms.

  


However, just as he slouched back in his seat ruminating on whether he’d collapse from starvation or have his now completely numb arm drop off first, Blaise dumped the majority of the candy in her arms onto the seat beside him.

  


He looked up at the glorious girl with stars in his eyes.

  


“You don’t mind if I keep my candy here, do you?” she asked innocently.

  


He gave the loathsome girl a look of the deepest hurt.

  


“I’m kidding,” she assured him with a snicker. “It’s for what you did earlier,” she explained with a warm smile. “I didn’t think I’d ever see the day where Draco Malfoy would apologize for anything. I figured that since you provided the show, the least I could do was provide the snacks.”

  


“You are a beautiful person,” he praised with wonder in his voice as he traced the pile of sugary confections, his faith in humanity restored. Luckily for Blaise, her dark skin tone hid the blush she felt at his comment, though in all honesty, Shen was too distracted by the treasure trove of sweets to have noticed if she had turned tomato red and had steam shooting out of her ears.

  


However, no sooner did the slightly embarrassed philanthropist sit down than her benchmate stood up. “I have to visit the washroom,” Daphne announced. “Blaise?” The blonde opened the door to the compartment and looked pointedly at her friend.

  


“But I have candy,” Blaise complained.

  


Daphne simply stared at her expectantly.

  


With a sigh, the candy-blocked girl stood up and followed her friend into the hallway.

  


“Weird,” Shen commented as the door slid shut. With a shrug, he turned to the pile of candy at his side, though the little packages proved annoyingly difficult to open one-handedly.

  


But then he got an idea.

  


“Traaaacey,” he gently called to the human blood-pressure cuff. “I have some candy here for you.” He gently wafted one of the opened packages of something called a Cauldron Cake under her button nose. He chuckled at how her small nose crinkled as she sniffed like a puppy at the sweet he was waving in front of her.

  


With a jolt, she sat bolt upright, staring at the proffered candy with shock and excitement, though Shen had no idea why she’d be shocked by the offer.

  


“You’re giving me candy?!” she asked with joy-filled, and still somewhat surprised, eyes.

  


“Ummm …,” he responded, still somewhat confused by her reaction. “Yes?”

  


The word was barely out of his mouth before she snatched the treat out of his hands with, rather disturbingly, a triumphant giggle.

  


He couldn’t quite understand why, but as he watched her tear into the sweet with equal parts enthusiasm and sheer savagery, he suddenly felt himself awash in a bizarre sense of impending doom. Shrugging it off, he shifted the pile of sweets between the two of them while he helped himself to a Chocolate Frog and massaged signs of life back into his slightly purple arm.

  


After examining his Chocolate Frog, though, he found himself wondering what it said about the wizarding culture that they liked to animate some of their sweets to act like a living animal before they bit their heads off. However, he was distracted from his musings on the implications of a magic-using community that apparently engaged in culturalized sociopathy by the sad yet hopeful look the auburn-haired girl was giving the pile of candy between them.

  


“Help yourself, Trace,” he told the girl, receiving a wide, chocolaty grin in return. Once again shrugging off the inexplicable sense of doom, he joined her in testing just how many sweets they could inhale before they slipped into diabetic shock.

  


* * *

  


Out in the hallway, Blaise gave a violent shiver.

  


“What was that?” Daphne asked curiously.

  


“I don’t know,” Blaise answered, looking confused. “I just … suddenly got the feeling that something terrible has happened.”

  


Daphne raised an eyebrow at her strange friend before dismissing the experience and continuing on with her walk down the train.

  


Blaise hurried to catch up. “So, what did you want to talk about? I’m hazarding a guess that you didn’t actually drag me out here to walk you to the washroom.”

  


“What are your thoughts on our newest companion?” Daphne asked, getting straight to the point.

  


_Figures_. “You mean you want to know what I’ve noticed about him before you brag about just how much more you noticed than me?” Blaise asked with a wry grin, more than passingly familiar with how her friend worked by this point.

  


“That is the general idea, yes,” Daphne shamelessly confirmed with a faint smile.

  


“Fair enough,” Blaise replied. “Let’s see … he’s completely ignorant of the Hogwarts founders despite them being some of the most famous witches and wizards in history, so odds are he’s muggleborn. He’s got a bit of a hero complex given how quickly he got involved after … what Malfoy said.” She paused a bit there, still itching to find that little weasel and show him just what she thought about that, even though she knew she never could without being completely decimated by his father. At that moment, though, she also noticed that the compartment she assumed was Malfoy’s up ahead had several older students milling about, including one wearing a Head Boy badge. _Wonder what that’s about_ , she mused. However, she shook off the sight and returned to what she was saying.

  


“That suggests there may be some red and gold in his future.” She paused to giggle at Daphne’s expression at the thought of having shared a cabin with a potential Gryffindor. “He also knows his way around a fight,” Blaise continued. “Crabbe and Goyle barely touched him, and he didn’t even hesitate at going up against them.” She gave a ridiculously over-the-top girlish sigh. “What a hero,” she dramatically murmured, fluttering her eyelashes and staring dreamily off into the distance.

  


Daphne rolled her eyes at her friend’s playacting. “Are you done?”

  


With a grin, Blaise abandoned her air-headed princess attitude. “Yeah, I’m done. So why don’t you tell me exactly how much I missed, oh eagle-eyed Queen of Creepy Staring?”

  


“Well, first off, he’s probably not muggleborn,” Daphne corrected her friend. “He’s foreign. He seems more oblivious to our history and culture than he is oblivious to magic itself, but he mentioned he was from China, so that would explain it.”

  


Blaise frowned at that. “Wait, if he’s really from China, why doesn’t he have an accent or anything?”

  


Daphne shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s possible that he was raised by a British family living in China. They might have even moved there during the war. That would also explain why his name was on the roster for Hogwarts despite living so far away. The children of alumni are automatically on the list.”

  


Blaise nodded at the explanation. “And what makes you think he’s not oblivious to magic? He hasn’t really talked about magic, has he?”

  


Daphne gave a small, smug smile. “It’s not what he said; it’s what he did.” At Blaise’s confused look, she continued. “After kicking Malfoy out, he closed the door to the compartment. Without touching it, and without seeming surprised it was happening.”

  


Blaise blinked at that, having missed that little detail in her shocked glee at seeing Malfoy taken down a peg or six. “You’re saying he did wandless magic? _Controlled_ wandless magic?”

  


Daphne nodded. “I am. It was too smooth to be accidental magic, and he never blinked when it happened, meaning it wasn’t an unexpected and uncontrolled burst. But that’s not all. Think back to the fight. Do you remember when Goyle hit him?”

  


“Of course,” Blaise answered, confused about the segue. “It looked like the only time those idiots managed to lay a hand on him. Shen never really flinched, though. He’s tough.”

  


Daphne shook her head. “That wasn’t toughness; that was unnatural. A boy of Goyle’s size hitting someone in the face that hard? Shen might as well have been a statue for all the more mind he paid it. His head barely even moved, and his face seemed completely unhurt afterwards. That’s not normal.”

  


Blaise blinked at her friend’s implications. “You’re saying that was magic too? And since I never saw a wand there, I’m guessing you’re saying more wandless magic?”

  


Daphne nodded once more. “I am. Those effects were unnatural, but they also weren’t bizarre or chaotic like accidental magic tends to be. It was deliberate, and it was controlled.” She turned to look her friend in the eye. “It was _trained_.”

  


Blaise didn’t know what to say to that. “But … I’ve never heard of magic like that. Is wandless magic like that even possible outside of accidental magic?”

  


Dahpne shrugged. “I don’t know. However, I don’t really know how other countries use magic. It might be that wandless magic of that sort is something they use in China. Regardless, given the fact that he doesn’t seem like he’s homeless and that magic such as this doesn’t seem new to him, his family doubtless knows about it, and thus either trained him in it themselves or else found tutors to do so for them. It’s doubtful he simply learned it all himself. This means he likely has more experience with magic than any of us.”

  


Blaise stared at her friend for a moment before frowning. “Couldn’t you have just gone first so I could have pretended I noticed all the same stuff you did?”

  


“Well, that doesn’t sound like nearly as much fun,” Dapne replied with a subtle smirk.

  


Blaise sighed. “So, what are you thinking, then?”

  


Daphne paused. “I think,” she began slowly, “that it would be a very good idea to remain close to him. I get the impression that he will be a very powerful individual, and in more ways than one. I’d much rather someone like that be an ally than a stranger.”

  


Blaise rolled her eyes. “Yep, total Gryffindor in the making here,” she commented dryly.

  


Daphne glared at her before returning to her cool mask. “And what are your thoughts on this?”

  


Blaise shrugged. “I like him, and I get the feeling things are going to be … _interesting_ where he’s involved. I have no problem staying close to him.” She grinned. “Besides, Tracey seems like she’s adopted him. At this point, I don’t think we have much choice about being his friends if she has anything to say about it.”

  


Daphne chuckled. “Yes, I noticed that. I wanted to talk to her, too, but I doubted I’d be able to physically pry her off of her new pillow.

  


“Hey, better him than us, right?” Blaise asked, rubbing her left arm, which was suddenly twinging in memory.

  


Daphne shuddered. “Exactly,” she agreed, rubbing her own arm.

  


Arriving back at their compartment, however, they were suddenly assaulted by flashbacks reaching far beyond over-aggressive cuddling from their very physically affectionate and emotionally unrestrained friend.

  


“ _Noooo_ ,” Daphne whispered in genuine horror.

  


“Hi guys!” a chocolate-smeared Tracey practically shouted at them from where she was jumping up and down on the seat. “Oh my god have you guys tried these Cauldron Cakes because they are way awesome though the Fizzing Whizzbees are really really good so I don’t know which are my favorite but the Cockroach Clusters are just blegh don’t even try them they’re nasty and I know it wasn’t just a bad one because I tried a whole bunch and they were all way way nasty and Merlin's beard this seat is way bouncier than my bed though I’m guessing it’s magic and I can’t wait to learn that magic so I can charm my bed to be just as bouncy and–”

  


“What did you do?!” an unusually emotional Daphne yelled at the boy, who was huddled against the far wall staring in terror as the girl rambled on and on and on without any apparent need to breathe and without losing even an ounce of her enthusiasm for jumping on her seat.

  


Turning to the girls in the doorway, he fixed them with a traumatized stare normally reserved for someone who had just witnessed some unspeakable horror, like their entire family being murdered, or someone being mean to a puppy.

  


“I have made a terrible mistake,” he whispered.

  


“You gave her sugar?!” Blaise demanded in horror, staring at the wrappers littering the floor. “How much?!”

  


“Half,” the scarred boy answered. “But … she may have forcibly taken … a bit more than that.”

  


“And most of it was delicious!” the still bouncing Tracey happily and loudly chimed in.

  


Blaise turned to Daphne, who was now as pale as Goyle was when he limped out of there. “Still liking your plan, Daph?” Blaise quietly asked, referring back to their conversation in the hallway.

  


Daphne swallowed shakily as she continued to stare at the already highly energetic girl now running wild on a massive sugar rush. “I am … giving it some more thought,” she finally answered. “Wait, no! Tracey, get down from the luggage rack!” She hurried in before Tracey could make more headway in her impersonation of a trunk mixed with a Mexican jumping bean.

  


Swallowing deeply, Blaise reluctantly stepped forward to help her. “And to think … just six more hours to go till we reach Hogwarts.”

  


* * *

  


It was a very … _very_ long trip. After being forcibly evicted from the luggage rack, Tracey returned to her experiments in wandless flight via cushion bouncing. It didn’t exactly prove to be a fruitful method, but that didn’t stop her from repeating her experiment. Frequently. And at length. For variety, she even started bouncing from one bench to the other, which was appreciated by none of her fellow cabin-mates.

  


When she finally got bored and scrapped that particular test, she elected to stick her head out the window for fresh air, which her companions were extremely supportive of. However, they were forced to draw the line when the hyperactive girl started trying to climb fully out the window and onto the roof of the speeding train, ignoring her vocal explanation that she was simply “trying to practice for second year!” This earned an embarrassed Blaise a rather venomous glare from Daphne, which Shen didn’t understand, but he elected not to question it. He had his hands rather full with the squirming redhead at the time, after all.

  


At this moment, Shen even noticed that the same bushy-haired girl from the bookshop, of all people, had appeared at the door to their compartment. However, upon raising her hand to knock, she froze as she caught sight of the chaos the whirlwind known as Tracey was unleashing upon her poor cabin-mates.

  


The bushy-haired girl slowly backed away.

  


_Lucky,_ a jealous Shen tiredly thought.

  


Tracey then decided that things were getting rather boring for her companions, and so she decided to liven things up with a stirring performance of _Girl Hanging Like a Fruit Bat from the Luggage Rack_ , which earned her absolutely no applause and not a single cry for an encore, though Tracey was very verbal in blaming this on Daphne for refusing to play her role as Fruit Bat #2.

  


Daphne made no reply to these accusations.

  


Eventually, however, all traumatizing things must come to an end, as they learned when Tracey finally slipped into a sugar coma in the midst of an aria (a musical rendition of _Girl Hanging Like a Fruit Bat from the Luggage Rack_ , to be specific). Shen then spent the rest of the train ride with the tiny girl snoring into his shoulder and squeezing his arm so tightly as to ensure that he would never again be able to use it for anything more complicated than floppily waving at things, which he deemed an acceptable trade off and the girls clearly felt was no less than he deserved.

  


Of course, things got interesting when it came time to change into school robes. Luckily, the sleeping terror was already wearing her uniform, as were the other girls. Unfortunately, Shen was not. The ensuing struggle to remove his new Tracey-shaped appendage required all three of them working together and led him to seriously consider amputation, but they eventually pried her off and allowed him to slip away to change.

  


Upon returning, he barely managed to sit down before the half-conscious girl seized his arm once more. Luckily for Shen, however, his tortured limb only had time to return to feeling like a pincushion before the train started slowing down.

  


They had arrived at the station.

  


A fact that evidently meant nothing to their sleepy compatriot.

  


“C’mon, Tracey. We’re here. It’s time to wake up,” Blaise cajoled her friend, going for the gentle approach.

  


Tracey didn’t respond with words so much as a weak growling noise, following by her attempting to burrow even further into Shen’s shoulder.

  


“Tracey, it’s time to go,” Daphne said more sharply, evidently going for the tough-love approach. “If you don’t get up, we’ll leave you here to ride the train all the way back to London while we get sorted.”

  


“Wait, what about me?” Shen asked in mild alarm, as Tracey’s grasp of his arm largely made them a package deal by this point. “If you leave her on the train, won’t that mean I’m stuck here too?”

  


Daphne contemplated the situation for a moment. “I am prepared to make that sacrifice,” she finally replied.

  


“Well, screw that noise,” Shen responded, turning to Tracey to try the physical approach. However, rather than trying to forcibly remove the surprisingly tenacious girl, he decided to go right for the kill.

  


Tickling.

  


The sleepy girl put up a brave fight, but alas, her best efforts proved in vain. She was eventually left rolling and cackling on the seat, and in the chaos, Shen managed to slip his arm free of her clutches. However, fearing that she might instead try to grab his leg or something if he simply walked away, he decided to scoop her up in his arms, resulting in a surprised squeak from the now airborne girl.

  


The girls by the door each raised an eyebrow in almost identical expressions of surprise and bemusement.

  


“This seems more expedient,” Shen replied with a shrug, which Tracey appeared to find acceptable, given how she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest, apparently determined to squeeze in as much extra sleep as she could manage before the sorting.

  


Rolling her eyes at their antics, Daphne led the way out of the train and into the crisp Scottish night. Tracey did not appear to care for the cold, if the way she shivered and tried to burrow even deeper into his chest was any indication.

  


Shen found more than a few looks directed his way because of his passenger, which he completely understood, as they cut something of an odd figure. He didn’t quite understand what all the giggling was about from the girls in the crowd, though.

  


However, his attention was soon grabbed by something else entirely.

  


“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”

  


Turning to look at source of the booming voice, Shen had only one thing to say.

  


“ _Damn._ ”

  


He didn’t think he’d ever see someone who could make Faraji look tiny, but here he was. Holding a swinging lantern well, _well_ over their heads was an absolute giant of a man that couldn’t have been an inch less than ten feet tall. Dressed in a long, shaggy overcoat and sporting a veritable mane of wild black hair and beard, he was more than a little imposing. However, the tiny black eyes peeking out from beyond the mass of hair had an indelible kindness to them that belied the man’s fearsome stature.

  


“Firs’ years over here!”

  


Of course, the same couldn’t exactly be said for the man’s voice, which echoed throughout the platform like the roar of some great beast.

  


“Where do you think us first years are supposed to go?” Shen asked his companions dryly.

  


“ _Firs’ years gather over here!_ ” the giant’s booming voice echoed out once more, leaving their ears ringing faintly.

  


“Strangely enough, I get the feeling we might be supposed to go over there,” Blaise answered in the same tone as Shen.

  


Daphne sighed.

  


Soon, they and the rest of the first years had gathered around the walking landmark with a lantern.

  


“Alright, everyone! This way ter the boats. Follow me!” the fuzzy giant bellowed as he turned to lead them off the platform and down a narrow path.

  


As they moved farther away from the train platform, the only light they were left with was from the bobbing lantern up ahead, which was just enough to illuminate half of the giant’s face and the faint edges of trees along the steep, rocky path. Most of the crowd of first years spent the majority of the trip slipping and sliding into one another as they flocked along after their guide like a brace of ducklings. Shen never wavered, though, even despite his still-sleeping passenger in his arms.

  


The decidedly not outdoorsy girls next to him shot him more than a few bitter looks about that, as they slid and stumbled about as much as anyone, only outdone by a somewhat pudgy-looking boy who outright fell twice.

  


“Yeh’ll get yer first sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec!” their hopefully-school-appointed-and-not-just-a-random-drifter giant called out from up ahead. Sure enough, he was proven right, as they all came around a bend and ended up on the edge of a glistening dark lake, on the other side of which was–

  


“ _Hogwarts_ ,” Shen breathed.

  


It was beautiful. The massive, elaborate castle was built on a small cliff overlooking the lake, and the entire thing glittered in the inky black night like some strange jewel with all of the torch-lit windows decorating its walls.

  


And the _magic_ … Shen had to fight to keep himself from being swept away in the overwhelming chorus of its magic, every note of which struck something deep inside of him and made him feel like he was vibrating like a tuning fork. Every muscle seemed to itch to launch him towards the castle so that he could sink even deeper into the song.

  


He couldn’t, however. He had Tracey in his arms and Blaise and Daphne at his side. He couldn’t simply hurl himself into the haunting stream of magic like he had in Diagon Alley when he let the music drag him along to the wandshop.

  


And so he resisted.

  


The music swept through him, and he kept his feet planted. He decided his place, not the whims of a song. The music raged louder and sweeter, and he grit his teeth and locked his legs, which seemed an inch from hurling him to the castle whatever he wanted.

  


He distantly registered Tracey squeaking in his arms as he unconsciously tightened his grip, but he was too caught up. Despite the crisp, cold night air, sweat beaded on his brow as he fought what felt like temptation itself as the music swelled even higher and he stubbornly refused to surrender to its call. _My place is here,_ some distant part of himself thought furiously as the music dragged him around like flotsam caught in the rapids. _I will go when I damn well feel ready. Not before!_

  


The siren song of magic raged on, louder and more beautiful than ever.

  


_I … am not … a dog … on a leash_ , his thoughts came, strained and raging under the battering of the honey-sweet chorus ringing in his ears and crushing his inner self like the ocean depths. _Not for man … and not for magic._ His inner self howled and snarled as he was smashed and torn by the unbearable _weight_ of magic trying to make him dance along to its tune like a trainer with a treat. Quivering, he was caught on the edge of simply being crushed and swept away forever as the song pressed inexorably down on him.

  


His snarling eyes gleamed with more than just light.

  


_I … am … SHEN!_

  


With inhuman rage, he pushed back, throwing off the unbearable mass of the song like a fist punching free of the earth after being buried alive.

  


With a gasp, he snapped back to reality, once more seeing the physical world around him.

  


Only this time, he was seeing _more_.

  


Hogwarts glistened with more than just torch-lit windows. Everywhere he looked, he saw brilliant cords of light pulsing and flowing as they stretched through and over everything like the tangled roots of some eldritch tree. His strange gaze ran skyward, where massive domes of the brilliant cords of light filled the air over the castle like monstrous nets crafted with the intricacy of lace, but the weight of pure steel, each one of them flowing and alive as they pulsed with the same rhythm as everything else there.

  


The heartbeat of Hogwarts.

  


Looking down, he was surrounded with what looked like small glowing crystal spheres of various colors, one of which was floating right in front of him. Each one was subtly different from the others, but they were all identical in that they somehow gave off the impression of extreme youth, as if the lights he saw flowing through Hogwarts were old beyond measure, but these were barely out of their infancy, like fireflies flitting about an ancient oak tree that had been around long before they were born and would remain long after their light had faded.

  


Frowning slightly, he faintly heard something. He thought it might have been a person’s voice, but it was muffled, like someone was speaking to him while he was under water. At the thought, the lights faded away, and the sphere he was staring at vanished, replaced by the robed chest of the girl in his arms, who he now realized was the one speaking.

  


“–lowing thing!” she whispered triumphantly.

  


Blinking and staggering slightly, he tried to get his bearings, feeling like he had gone from staring through a telescope to looking at something shoved in front of his face.

  


“Hey, are you alright?” Blaise asked, laying a hand on his shoulder and looking at him in concern.

  


He shook his head to clear it, feeling the night breeze burn cold on his slightly sweat-coated skin. “I’m fine,” he told her.

  


“Uh-huh,” she replied, clearly not buying it.

  


“What, does it really take it out of you to do the freaky eye-glowing thing?” Tracey asked smugly from his arms. “I told you that you did it!”

  


Shen blinked at the girl’s claim. _Were my eyes really glowing?_

  


Turning, he noticed Daphne staring at him as sharply as ever, no doubt cataloging everything. Looking around, though, he saw that the rest of the first years were still filing out of the path onto the lake bed, meaning that whatever the hell that whole experience was, it hadn’t lasted long, at least.

  


_Was I actually seeing magic?_ he wondered in amazement, knowing only one other person who could visually perceive magic like that. _And, of course, he’s who knows how many thousands of miles away, and with the whole trial business, he wouldn’t tell me anything even if he were right here in front of me. Perfect._

  


“Well?!” Tracey demanded from half a foot away.

  


Pulled out of his thoughts, he looked at the girl in his arms. “‘Well’ what?”

  


“How did you do the freaky eye-glowing thing?” she asked, once more staring into his eyes as if searching for something.

  


“I don’t think I did a ‘freaky eye-glowing thing,’” he rebutted. _After all,_ he mentally continued, _“freaky” is a very strong word_. “Could you have been seeing some reflected torchlight?” he suggested.

  


“Bull!” Tracey fired back, clearly not buying it.

  


“Alright, Tracey, that’s enough,” Daphne stepped in. “It’s time you got down, too.”

  


“What? Why?” Tracey pouted, wrapping herself more tightly around Shen’s neck. _That’s alright. Oxygen is just a luxury, anyways_.

  


“Because you are awake now,” Daphne insisted. “And you can’t go through the sorting with Shen holding you.”

  


“But I’m still sleepy,” the tiny girl whined.

  


Daphne nodded understandingly. “Easy enough to fix.” She turned to him. “Shen, dump her in the lake.”

  


He had never seen a girl move so fast in his life as she threw herself out of his arms and started brushing off her robes. “I’m up. I’m awake.”

  


“Glad to hear it,” Daphne replied with a faint smile.

  


“Alright, firs’ years,” the walking foghorn called out as all the first years gathered on the bank, “Board up. No more’n four to a boat!”

  


Looking down, Shen noticed a fleet of tiny boats gently bobbing at the water’s edge. Leading the way to one of them, he stopped at the edge and held out a hand to help the girls board.

  


Daphne gave him a subtle smile for his efforts as she delicately took his hand and stepped aboard.

  


Blaise, meanwhile, took a different approach. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she warbled, dropping into a ridiculously elaborate curtsy before taking his hand with a grin.

  


Chuckling, Shen turned to the last member of their strange little group, only to stagger back as Tracey took a running start and jumped back into his arms.

  


“Tracey!” Daphne scolded sharply.

  


“What?” the unrepentant girl asked innocently from a confused Shen’s arms. “I was afraid I might trip if I tried to step into the boat myself. But if Shen carries me, then I don’t have to worry about that!” The girl seemed very pleased with her logic.

  


“And how do you know that I won’t accidentally slip and, say, dump you into the lake?” Shen asked with a twisted smile.

  


“You would never do that,” Tracey answered certainly. “Because you are a gentleman, and I am a lady.”

  


“Since when?” Blaise asked wryly, which was a question the exasperated Daphne seemed to heartily agree with.

  


Tracey blew a very lady-like raspberry at the girl for daring to question her.

  


Sighing, Shen simply stepped aboard the tiny, rocking boat with the girl in his arms before gently, yet firmly, depositing said lady in one of the seats and taking his own.

  


“Ev’ryone aboard?” the giant called out from his own boat, which was utterly dwarfed by his massive size. “Right, then. FORWARD!”

  


Shen was too busy clasping his ears in pain at that bone-rattling shout to notice the boats start to move. “Wait a minute,” he muttered to his similarly wincing companions, “are you telling me that what we’ve been hearing until now has been his _speaking voice_?”

  


Blaise swallowed. “I hope he’s not a teacher. I don’t think my ears could handle it.”

  


“I like him,” Tracey spoke up perkily. “He’s fuzzy!”

  


“Well that is all that matters,” Daphne assured the girl.

  


Chuckling, Shen turned to take in the sights. Only the mundane ones, this time, but that didn’t make them any less remarkable.

  


The lake glistened in the dark like black silk as the boats flowed smoothly over it. Their faces were brushed with a faint cold mist as they moved, but rather than chilling them, it simply seemed to invigorate them, sinking into their lungs and making every breath seem somehow more crisp and filling.

  


Looking up, Shen watched the cliff and the looming castle drift slowly overhead like a summer cloud, the warm light from its distant windows gently washing over them as they passed under its shadow.

  


“Heads down!” the dulcet tones of their guide echoed out over the glassy water. The reason soon became clear as they passed through a gently swaying curtain of ivy, which danced over their shoulders and necks like curious fingers as they were carried through.

  


Eventually, their tiny armada came to a rest at an underground harbor, which echoed with the sound of the water faintly lapping against the gravel shoreline, interposed with the distant sound of the breeze whistling through the emerald curtain they had just passed through.

  


“Alright, ev’ryone unload here!” their guide informed them unnecessarily.

  


Shen stood up to help the others disembark, which went fairly smoothly, if you didn’t count Tracey’s pout due to Daphne keeping a firm hold of her arm to stop her from making Shen carry her again.

  


The quiet harbor suddenly became much livelier as it began to echo with the crunch of gravel and whispering voices from the shore-bound students.

  


“Oy!” the giant called out, checking the boats. “This anyone’s toad?”

  


“Trevor!” the pudgy boy from the path called out happily, forcing a rather claustrophobic-looking toad into his pocket.

  


Raising his lantern, the bearded goliath led the flock of students through a tunnel carved into the rock and eventually out into the open air, where the castle proper towered high over their heads. Striding up to the utterly massive oak doors, their guide lifted a fist the size of a small boulder and gave a loud, booming knock.


	7. Do you want lice? Because that’s how you get lice!

The doors opened smoothly and silently, belying their enormous size, and standing in the entryway on the other side was a rather tall witch wearing dark green robes and a stern expression.

  


“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” their guide introduced them, apparently needing to assure the woman that they were not under attack by a small army of solicitors or something.

  


“Thank you, Hagrid. I shall take them from here,” the woman answered the giant in a crisp Scottish brogue. “Students! Follow me,” she addressed them, turning to lead them into the entry hall. Several students ooh-ed and aah-ed as they stepped inside and marveled at the massive entryway, which was more than big enough to fit a large house inside rather comfortably. _Must be a pain to keep this place heated, though_ , Shen mused.

  


However, they didn’t get a chance to appreciate it for long, as the professor led them to a room just off the side, where they where forced to become rather well acquainted with each other in that somewhat confined space. Tracey seized the opportunity to wrap herself around Shen’s still-warm arm once more, to Daphne’s exasperation, Blaise’s amusement, and Shen’s tired acceptance.

  


“Welcome to Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall spoke up, drawing the attention of the excited first years. “Now then, the start-of-term banquet will begin momentarily, but before it does, you must be sorted into your houses. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. While you are here, your house will be something like your family. You will have classes together, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend time in your house common room. What’s more, your triumphs will earn your house points, whilst any rule breaking will lose points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup—a great honor. I am sure that each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes your own.”

  


At this, she stared rather sharply at them all over the top of her square-rimmed glasses, as if to press upon them the importance of following this not-quite suggestion. At least, for those who possessed self-preservation instincts, which apparently included Tracey, who Shen heard gulp audibly when the stern woman’s near-glare passed over her.

  


Daphne simply seemed bored as ever, while Blaise seemed to be trying to emulate her friend. Shen, meanwhile, found himself wondering what the stern woman was like when she snapped and lost the iron self-possession she practically seemed to exude. A part of him was rather eager to find out.

  


He firmly blamed Faraji for these unhealthy impulses.

  


Professor McGonagall continued. “The sorting ceremony will take place in a moment. In the meantime, I suggest you take this time to smarten yourselves up a bit.” With that, she left, and Shen found his eyes drifting towards the pale boy and his hulking bodyguards. _Easier said than done for some of us_ , he mentally remarked as he watched the two boys staring vacantly while their ringleader tried in vain to seem poised and confident. Curiously, he also noticed that the boys no longer seemed injured, though one still rubbed his hand while the other rubbed his side in clear memory of the experience. _Someone must have healed their injuries on the train_ , he concluded, losing interest in the trio.

  


Instead, he was far more interested in the theories running wild throughout the chamber about what the sorting entailed.

  


“My brothers told me we have to wrestle a troll,” a redheaded boy in faded robes informed the boys around him, who looked both terrified at the prospect and utterly convinced that this was true. _If only,_ Shen thought with a sigh.

  


“I suspect we’ll be quizzed,” the same bushy-haired girl he kept seeing everywhere insisted to anyone who would listen. “I’ve learned all the course books by heart, of course. Oh, I just hope it will be enough!” She seemed rather stressed at the thought, though not nearly as much as the students around her suddenly were, who most certainly had not memorized all of their coursebooks and now seemed rather alarmed at the prospect of failing the sorting and being sent home.

  


“I hear we have to duel a teacher,” one boy loudly proclaimed in an Irish accent. Shen’s face lit up at the boy’s words, but then he realized that it would be very unlikely that this school would have a bunch of new students magically duel a professor, and he was left pouting.

  


He perked right back up when the undead started invading, though.

  


The first wave was preceded by a chorus of screams from the students along the back wall, who had not exactly been expecting a floating armada of ghosts to suddenly phase through the sealed wall behind them, just as many other students were evidently not expecting such an outcry, if the way Tracey shrieked and practically jumped onto Shen’s shoulders like a scalded cat was any indication.

  


The ghosts, by contrast, seemed completely oblivious to the chaos their entrance had inspired, and continued with their casual conversation about something called a “Peeves.” Shen didn’t really listen, though. He was too busy peeling Tracey off his head and turning wide-eyed to his other companions.

  


“You people have _ghosts_?!” he asked in excitement.

  


“Well, yeah. Doesn’t everybody?” Blaise answered in fake casualness as she desperately tried to get her pounding heart back in rhythm.

  


Shen turned back to their surprise guests. “ _Awesome_.”

  


The ghosts, meanwhile, finally noticed the (mostly) cowering flock of first years.

  


“I say, what are you all doing here?” one semi-transparent figure in a righteous Shakespearean ruff collar asked them all.

  


“Inhabiting the mortal coil,” Shen answered happily. “What are you doing here?”

  


The floating Hamlet seemed amused by his answer, as did many of his wingmen. “Oh, just loitering a bit after the party ended,” he answered with a laugh.

  


“Nice,” Shen complimented with a grin. Behind him, he could actually hear the smack of Daphne’s hand as she face-palmed at the “conversation” going on in front of her, which earned him a giggle from Tracey and an approving thumb’s up from a grinning Blaise.

  


“Ahem.”

  


Turning, they saw Professor McGonagall in the entryway, meaning their time with the ghosts had come to an untimely end.

  


“We are ready for you now,” she announced. “Follow me.”

  


“Good luck,” Ruffles called out to them. “Hope to see many of you in Gryffindor!”

  


“Toodles!” Shen called out to them as he and the rest of the first years streamed out of the room following the professor.

  


Well, most of them did. Daphne missed a step at Shen’s farewell.

  


“‘ _Toodles_ ’?” she asked him in a strained voice as she caught up to them.

  


“What? It seemed like a ‘toodles’ kind of moment,” he defended.

  


Luckily, Blaise was there to help Daphne educate him. “Gosh, Shen, don’t you know anything? That situation _clearly_ called for you to say, ‘Fare thee well, yon shades of yesteryear. Until we meet again, be it as strangers, or as equals.’”

  


Shen and Tracey both loudly cracked up at her ridiculously dramatic and over-the-top voice, though Daphne just hung her head in tired defeat.

  


“If you are quite finished?” a crisp Scottish voice asked.

  


With a start, the quartet realized that the crowd had stopped in front of two large doors, through which they could hear the rumbling sounds of conversation from what was probably the rest of the school. However, their attention was drawn more to the stern-faced witch glaring at them disapprovingly, followed by the rest of the first years staring at them largely in amusement and smug pleasure at not being the ones in the spotlight.

  


With a quiet “eep,” a reddened Tracey ducked behind Shen, who obviously took the mature road in dealing with their current situation.

  


“Yes, Blaise, if you are _quite_ finished? This is a time for propriety and decorum, after all,” he scolded her snootily in his best Daphne impression, though he couldn’t quite keep the laugh completely out of his voice. Of course, that didn’t stop him from receiving two impressively frosty glares from the girl he was clearly impersonating and the one he was throwing under the bus, respectively.

  


“Well said,” McGonagall clipped, staring sharply at Shen to make it clear she did not buy his little act. He flushed a bit, but then decided to try smiling charmingly. It was one of Faraji’s go-to moves for getting out of trouble, after all, though Takashi, at least, continuously proved himself immune to the tactic.

  


Curiously, the iron woman seemed to do a small double take at the sight of the smile, as if something about it rang a long-forgotten bell in the professor. Whatever it was, though, it seemed to distract her enough to get them out of trouble, as she shook herself slightly and turned to open the doors without another word.

  


With that, the muted chatter of hundreds of students suddenly became much less muted, swelling like the roar of some great fire as they stepped into the warm, brightly lit hall.

  


_Alright, this is a little impressive_ , Shen though with a smile as he looked around the hall, staring from the four long tables filled with hungry students and empty golden plates to the volley of candles floating and quietly singing (to his ears, at least) overhead, above which was apparently just open sky, where he watched wispy clouds slowly chase each other across the brilliant silver moon.

  


“It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside,” he heard that same freaking bushy-haired girl whisper to someone. “I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History_.” For some reason, though, the girl she was speaking to didn’t seem to find this as interesting as Shen did, given the way she started edging away from the enthusiastically informative girl.

  


At that moment, though, their shambling flock came a halt in front of a three-legged stool set before a long table filled with adults that Shen assumed were the professors, or else very, _very_ remedial students. Looking around, Shen noticed the distinct absence of trolls or dueling rings, which made him very sad. However, he _did_ see Professor McGonagall place an impressively tattered old pointed hat on the stool, so … that was a thing.

  


For several moments, everyone stared at the hat. Some of the first years behind Shen wondered aloud if they had to try and pull a rabbit out of it, while Shen simply wondered if they had ever washed that thing. Given its grungy appearance, though, he was guessing no.

  


And then it began to sing.

  


Shen’s eyes bulged as folds in the hat took on a parodied appearance of eyes and a mouth while a gruff, tuneless voice began belting out lyrics. He didn’t even register the words it was singing, he was so distracted by the gravelly voice, like a smoker chewing rocks who had once heard a song, but now only distantly remembered how music and notes worked.

  


Deliberately distracting himself from the enchanted object, both to spare himself its “singing” and to help counter his nearly irrepressible urge to start tearing it apart in front of everyone to try and figure out how it had been made to act alive, he began studying the probably-professors.

  


Front and center in a golden throne-like chair was an old man dressed in almost violently bright purple robes speckled with glittering stars. Somehow, though, it was his long, snowy white beard that seemed the most eye-catching part of his appearance. Beyond that beard, though, the man had half-moon spectacles perched on a crooked nose, above which were brilliant blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with constant mirth and warmth in a manner that kind of reminded Shen of the high grandmaster.

  


Scanning the rest of the table, Shen noticed one professor in particular that seemed to be studying the students rather closely, and given the man’s subtle sneer, he didn’t seem too impressed. The man had something of a sallow complexion and a fairly prominent hooked nose, though unlike Beardsley, his simply seemed to naturally be that shape as opposed to looking like it had been broken a time or two. Upon brushing some of his somewhat oily-looking black hair out of his face, he also revealed a pair of glittering dark eyes, though unlike the gentle giant who led them across the lake, his seemed anything but kind.

  


At that moment, though, the man noticed Shen staring at him, and that was when things got strange.

  


Much like the humorless woman who escorted them into the hall, his demeanor screamed self-possession, as if nothing could ever surprise him or wipe the faint sneer of condescension from his features. However, this was proven false the moment the man caught sight of Shen’s emerald eyes. The man’s own onyx orbs widened in shock as he stared at Shen, and his already pale skin rapidly started giving the other man’s snow-white beard a run for its money. Shen would have said that the man looked as if he had seen a ghost, but given the casual presence of the specters now scattered throughout the hall, that metaphor no longer seemed to fit. If he had to guess, he would have said that the man recognized him, but he would swear that he had never seen him before in his life.

  


Even more curiously, the man suddenly seemed to grow even more astonished as they continued to stare at each other, as if Shen had done something he hadn’t expected, though Shen had absolutely no clue what that might have been, considering he was simply standing there.

  


Shrugging off the man’s weird reactions, Shen returned to scanning the table, running his eyes over a particularly scrawny professor wearing a turban over to a cheerful-looking plump witc–

  


Staggering, Shen felt his stomach drop as an icy chill soaked his limbs, as if the warm, merry fire that was his magic had suddenly been joined with cold, dark rivers of jagged black ice as it coursed through his veins. The experience ended between one heartbeat and the next, but before it did, the entire cheery hall had seemed to melt away, leaving him in some terrible place where nothing lived but but cold, dark rage.

  


It made him think of his cupboard.

  


With a jerk, he realized that the hat had apparently found a sense of mercy and stopped singing, as all the students around him had started clapping in relief, the sound reaching him as if echoing through a long tunnel. He pulled his hand away from his chest where it had been unconsciously rubbing his strange scar to join them distractedly. His mind was on only one question, though.

  


_What the hell was that?_

  


Ever since he had started this trial, he had been batted around from one bizarre, inexplicable experience to another, from just whatever that … _Presence …_ that he encountered when he first tried his rowan wand was to his hostile encounter with Hogwarts’ magic on the lake bed, and now this. _At this rate, I’m gonna have a nervous tick or something by the time I make it back to the monastery._

  


With weary resignation to this fact, he once again started paying attention to the real world, only to realize that he had missed the iron woman telling them all something that was doubtless important. Luckily, upon watching her call out “Abbott, Hannah,” followed by a nervous-looking girl with sandy-blonde pigtails stepping up to sit on the stool and have the ratty hat draped over the top half of her face, he could extrapolate what she must have said. _“When I call your name, come forth and allow me to place this ancient and unwashed scrap of fabric over your head so that any dandruff or head lice your classmates may have can be spread thoroughly amongst the entire school.”_

  


Hearing a strangled noise next to him, he turned to see Tracey and Blaise shaking with painfully repressed laughter while Daphne had closed her eyes and seemed to be praying for patience, though he noticed a subtle up-curve to her lips in spite of that.

  


It was at that point that he realized he must have said that out loud. Mercifully, he must had said it somewhat quietly, at least, for which he was extremely thankful. He somehow doubted the stern-faced professor would have appreciated it very much.

  


“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat called out. The girl seemed rather pleased with this, as she happily ran over to the now very loudly cheering table.

  


“Bones, Susan,” McGonagall called out next.

  


This was followed by a slightly plump girl with brilliant red hair striding towards the stool with her head held high, clearly nervous, but obviously trying to hide it. Of course, her poise only really lasted until she stumbled on the hem of her robes, resulting in her face quickly reaching the same crimson shade as her hair as she hurried the last few feet to the stool.

  


“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat cried out once more, resulting in the still red girl scurrying over to sit next to Abbott, Hannah.

  


The next few students went much the way, with various students seeming very embarrassed and shy about being called up in front of the entire school before scuttling off to their various tables in clear relief, until finally …

  


“Davis, Tracey.”

  


After an audible gulp, the auburn-haired girl stepped up to the stool with noticeably wobbly steps. Before the hat was lowered over her eyes, though, Shen shot her a quick thumb’s up for encouragement.

  


And so they waited.

  


And waited.

  


_And waited_.

  


Looking over, Shen saw Blaise actually biting her fingernails in stress as the hat apparently struggled to make up its mind about her friend. Most surprisingly to Shen, though, was how visibly concerned Daphne was. Rather than standing there stoically like usual, the blonde was biting her lip and digging her nails into her palms as the interminable moment stretched on. He was rather impressed by the very human display of concern from the statuesque girl. It wasn’t what he expected.

  


“SLYTHERIN!” the hat finally cried out, to the usual polite applause from the student body. Shen’s eyebrows raised at the placement, though. Given how Daphne had described the houses, he had never expected Tracey to be placed in the house for the cunning and ambitious, as she didn’t exactly seem to exude those qualities. He was expecting something more along the lines of Hufflepuff, or maybe Gryffindor.

  


Tracey certainly seemed pleased, though. She was grinning as broadly as he had ever seen her as McGonagall lifted the hat off her head. She waved at her friends as she scampered over to the Slytherin table still beaming.

  


_So that’s it_ , Shen realized, turning to gauge the two girls’ reaction to her placement. _She wanted to be with her friends_. Studying Blaise, she was surprised, but glad. Underneath those emotions, though, ran a clear undercurrent of quiet concern and general confusion. Daphne, meanwhile, let out a nearly inaudible sigh as her fists unclenched. However, she didn’t relax much, and despite her faint sense of happiness, she more strongly emanated feelings of deep-seated worry, along with a subtle yet growing sense of … guilt?

  


Shen nodded as he started to understand. Blaise’s sorting was somewhat uncertain. He could see her fitting in Slytherin or Ravenclaw rather well. She gave off a definite sense of intelligence and wit, but he couldn’t quite tell where she was at in terms of drive and ambition, so wasn’t sure which of the two houses would suit her best. However, he didn’t think she would be out of place in either.

  


Daphne, on the other hand, clearly saw herself as nothing less than a pure Slytherin, if the way she carried herself and spoke of the house was any indication. There was absolutely no question about where she would be placed.

  


Tracey would have known that. If she was in Slytherin, then it’s because she wanted to be, whether or not she suited the house otherwise, and she would have wanted to be there because _Daphne_ , at least, was undoubtedly going nowhere else.

  


And Daphne knew it.

  


Blaise was clearly uncertain about Tracey’s placement because Tracey had never demonstrated the qualities that suited Slytherin, leaving her more confused about the sorting than anything. Daphne, though, obviously feared how a girl such as Tracey would fair in a house full of cunning and ambitious students when she lacked those qualities herself. Daphne’s visibly worried blue eyes spoke of her concerns quite clearly, and her slightly anguished face spoke volumes of the guilt she evidently felt at knowing it was likely because of her that her friend was in that position in the first place.

  


Reaching out, Shen placed a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, forcing her out of her brooding and earning himself a confused look.

  


“It will be okay,” he told her softly, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly. She stared at him in utter surprise at his words, but he wasn’t done. “After all, you’ll be there with her.” He gave her a warm smile. “She couldn’t ask for a better ally. And friend.”

  


Daphne stared at him in visible shock as another student was called up to be sorted. Turning slightly, Daphne looked over at the Slytherin table, where a few students wearing polite masks seemed to be making probing conversation with their exuberant new member. Daphne’s eyes flashed and her back straightened as she looked at the table with newfound determination and purpose before turning back to Shen with focused eyes and a faint hint of warm gratitude.

  


“Thank you, Shen,” she said softly, reaching up to lightly squeeze his hand on her shoulder.

  


“Anytime,” he answered with a smile as the latest student was apparently sorted. They both turned to join the school in clapping politely, though Daphne turned back to stare at Shen over her shoulder. This time, however, while she once again had the look of weighing and measuring in her eyes, there was more warmth to it than before, as if she was looking at him less like a tool to dissemble and reassemble and more like she was simply trying to figure him out.

  


“I think there’s more to you than meets the eye,” she concluded aloud with a faint upturn at the corners of her lips.

  


Shen’s own lips twitched. “My thoughts exactly, Miss Greengrass.”

  


This time, there was no mistaking her expression as anything other than a warm, genuine smile.

  


“Oh, sure, don’t mind me,” Blaise interrupted huffily. “You two go and have your moment while I just stand here quietly. That’s fine.”

  


“Could you? That would be ever so nice of you,” Daphne replied archly.

  


“Hmph!” Blaise harrumphed.

  


“Greengrass, Daphne.”

  


With a small jump, Daphne realized that she had lost track of the names being called. However, she quickly replaced her haughty, cool expression as she smoothly swept towards the stool and gracefully took her seat, dignity incarnate.

  


_Well, we can’t have that_.

  


“Good luck, Daph!” Shen called out loudly, waving at the girl exuberantly like an over-proud parent.

  


“We love you!” Blaise tearfully called out, assuming the role of an overly affectionate mother utterly determined to embarrass her children in front of their friends.

  


The poor girl’s mouth opened and closed in horrified silence as her face reached Bones, Susan levels of red. The rest of the hall, however, was anything but silent as gales of laughter swept through the student body and more than a few members of the faculty.

  


Not Professor McGonagall, though. Still holding the sorting hat in her hand, she leveled a particularly fierce glare at Shen and Blaise while her thin lips pressed together so tightly as to almost vanish. However, he noticed an ever so faint tilt to the corners of her mouth, suggesting she wasn’t clenching her jaw just to avoid yelling.

  


Daphne, though, was absolutely anything but amused, as she shot them both what was probably the fiercest glare he had ever seen, and he had been around Takeshi after _someone_ mysteriously dyed all of his clothes the most eye-wateringly bright shade of pink this world had ever seen, though the old man in the golden throne came close with his violet robes.

  


Faraji, of course, had denied any involvement in the horrible crime against laundry, though he insisted that the color brought out Takashi’s eyes.

  


As far as Daphne’s went, though, they were fortunately spared more of her violent gaze by McGonagall dropping the hat on her head.

  


_Un_ fortunately, the hat barely touched her before screaming “SLYTHERIN,” so they weren’t spared it for long.

  


With a stare that promised severe retribution, Daphne swept off the stool and stalked over to the Slytherin table and a still cackling Tracey.

  


Shen turned to Blaise. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we.” It wasn’t really a question.

  


“Big time,” she answered him with certainty.

  


“Totally worth it?” he asked with a grin.

  


“Totally worth it,” she happily confirmed without an ounce of hesitation.

  


Their hands smacked together in a proud high-five as they turned to watch the rest of the sorting and avoid any and all eye contact with Professor McGonagall or Daphne.

  


* * *

  


“They will rue this day,” a quietly enraged girl vowed in a low voice that cut like frozen crystal.

  


“Daph–”

  


“They will tell tales of my vengeance to frightened children by lamplight,” she continued in near monotone, never taking her eyes off the two soon-to-be victims. “Their suffering will be immortalized in legend, and the whole world shall understand that you do not fuck with a Greengrass.” The girl’s icy blue eyes darkened. “A Greengrass fucks with you.”

  


The witness to this terrible vow sighed tiredly. “Are you done?”

  


“For the moment,” Daphne relented.

  


“Thank you,” Tracey said in clear relief. However, it wasn’t long before mirth returned to her eyes. “You have to admit, though, that was pretty funny.”

  


“I admit no such thing,” Daphne replied frostily, once more returning to her cool, detached mask, even if wrath still smoldered in her eyes.

  


Snickering, Tracey returned to watching the rest of the sorting, leaving Daphne to plot in silence.

  


However, the longer she stared at the doomed boy still standing in the crowd of unsorted first years, the more her thoughts (unwillingly) shifted from vengeance to curiosity.

  


One minute, he acted like a goof, making lame jokes, and the next, he turned cold and dark before utterly and effortlessly destroying Malfoy and his goons, all because of something they said to a girl he had barely met and without apparently caring in the slightest about the titles Malfoy was bandying about, which even to someone completely ignorant of what they meant should have still been somewhat intimidating. Then, after Tracey’s sorting, he read the situation so well as to apparently understand Tracey’s predicament perfectly without knowing much about them or even the houses. On top of that, he read _her_ , someone who had been trained practically since birth to hide her thoughts and emotions behind a frozen mask. Almost like he was reading her mind, he cut right to the heart of her fears and her guilt with a simple glance, and then he … _comforted_ her.

  


She couldn’t understand it. He had powerful leverage in his hands. She was very protective of Tracey. Her friend wore her heart on her sleeve with virtually no inhibitions and no shields or defenses whatsoever.

  


She turned to look at her friend, who was now sitting with her head resting on her hand watching the monotonous sorting with an open-mouthed boredom that could only come from a combination of deep-seated exhaustion mixed with a long, routine ceremony.

  


Hiding a smile at the faint sight of drool from the completely checked-out girl, she turned back to the ceremony herself, politely clapping along with some random student’s sorting.

  


In truth, a part of her deeply admired Tracey. She was everything that she often wished she could be herself. Open. Free with her feelings. Utterly uncaring about how very vulnerable she was making herself to people who had been raised and trained like Daphne had been. These were things she herself could never be. Her father had made very certain of that.

  


It was her very admiration of Tracey that made her so desperately protective of the girl, as a part of her longed to see her friend do what she never could and keep living her life free of walls and barriers for just a little bit longer. However, her own inability to show vulnerability to the world like Tracey did was what also made her so very secretive about her desire to protect the girl. Wanting to protect Tracey made Daphne deeply vulnerable, as anyone who wanted to hurt or control her could manage it fairly well by going after her friend. In a sense, her protective feelings for Tracey made her much more vulnerable than her even stronger protective feelings for her sister Tori. It was to be expected for her to be protective of her little sister, after all. There was little secret to hide there. What’s more, Tori had far more than Daphne herself protecting her. She also had their father, along with all the weight and might of the Greengrass name. She had issues with her father, to put it lightly, but if there was one thing she could count on, it was that the man would protect his legacy. By carrying the Greengrass name, she and her sister were safe as houses.

  


Well, from the world outside of their father, at least.

  


Tracey, though? She had no-one. There was just her and Blaise. Her friend was so vulnerable, and by extension, that made Daphne so much more vulnerable as well, should any find out just how much she cared for her friend and how much she would sacrifice to keep her safe. As such, she kept that part of herself deeply hidden, so as to protect them both. She maintained her mask of aloofness, and everyone assumed that she kept Tracey around out of a sense of pity, or maybe as a lackey like Malfoy with Crabbe and Goyle. They didn’t know that she truly cared, and she went to great lengths to keep it that way.

  


Shen, though? Still practically a stranger, and yet with one look, and he cut straight to the heart of her and tore through every wall and mask she had in place to see … _everything_. And then, he … did nothing with it. He comforted her. If he was astute enough to see her feelings about Tracey, then he was insightful enough to realize what that meant for her, and just how much power that knowledge must have given him over her. And still … he didn’t care. He did nothing with it. She honestly couldn’t say for sure that she would have done as he did.

  


She snorted quietly. Actually, that wasn’t true. She knew _exactly_ what she would have done with such leverage. She would have carefully filed it away, and she would have remained damn quiet in doing so. Then, when the time was right, she would have trotted out that nugget of knowledge to get whatever she needed from the other person.

  


This was how she had been taught, after all, and she had always excelled in that particular lesson.

  


Over in the unsorted first years, she watched Shen and Blaise laugh together, suggesting that they were getting along fairly well, which somewhat surprised her, as Blaise didn’t tend to warm up to people all that quickly. Instead, she was much more likely to maintain distance by being dry and snarky rather than outright joking with someone. The two laughing students earned a sharp look from the dour professor running the sorting, but neither noticed.

  


_Oh yes_ , Daphne thought. _I think we will definitely be remaining close to you this year, Shen._

  


Of course, she’d still have to punish him for embarrassing her like he did. It was simply a matter of principle.

  


And so, for the next several minutes, she slipped into various fantasies about the vengeance she would wreak, all the while politely and absently clapping as various students she didn’t care about were sorted into their houses, until …

  


“Potter, Harry.”

  


Daphne froze, pulled roughly out of her latest fantasy by the sound of that name. _Harry Potter?_ The _Harry Potter?_ Beside her, Tracey’s elbow slipped off the table, resulting in her cheek smacking into the tabletop as she jerked in surprise at hearing that name. Daphne barely noticed, however. She, like every other student in the hall, was sitting up straight and staring fiercely at the crowd of unsorted first years.

  


“Did she say ‘Harry Potter’?” Tracey asked excitedly, joining in on the rampant talking and whispering that had sprung up in the hall at McGonagall’s mention of that famous name.

  


“She did,” Daphne answered distractedly, still trying to catch sight of the famous figure. _I didn’t even realize he would be starting this year_ , she reflected in embarrassment.

  


_Or maybe he isn’t_ , she amended. After all, no-one was stepping forward.

  


The whispering in the hall grew louder as the unsorted students turned and stared at each other in confusion and suspicion, as if Harry Potter might be hiding in one of their pockets. Well, all except one, that is. Shen was apparently oblivious to all of this. Rather than looking around or whispering, he was staring straight up at the enchanted ceiling with his mouth slightly agape, completely and undignifiably lost in thought. Daphne rolled her eyes in exasperation at the sight.

  


As if hearing her rather unflattering mental opinion about his poise, however, he returned to earth, closing his mouth and looking around in apparent confusion as to what everyone was whispering about.

  


“Harry Potter?” McGonagall called out once more, this time very sadly, as if sure that he wasn’t going to be joining their school after all. Daphne could understand her disappointment. Someone like that would have potentially made a very powerful ally.

  


Shen, meanwhile, turned and idly looked at the students behind him as if wondering when this “Harry Potter” person would step up to be sorted. However, a few seconds later, he gave a sudden jolt as something occurred to him.

  


“Oh wait, that’s me!”

  


Dead silence greeted this asinine declaration as everyone simply stared at the tall eleven year old standing with his hand in the air.

  


“WHAT?!”

  


Daphne wished she could have yelled at Tracey for that outburst, she truly did, but it wouldn’t exactly have been fair to the girl, since it came from Daphne herself. Tracey was simply staring bug-eyed at that lying son of a bitch who most certainly dID NOT MENTION THAT HIS NAME WAS _HARRY FREAKING POTTER_ AND INSTEAD FED THEM THIS “ _SHEN”_ BULLSHIT!

  


Though, it was possible she may have been projecting onto her friend just a little bit.

  


Out in the crowd of unsorted students, Blaise stared open-mouthed as Sh– … Harr– … _whoever he was_ trotted towards the stool amidst a growing wave of whispers and questions from the confused students.

  


Once he took his seat, though, he had to turn to Professor McGonagall, who simply stood there staring at him.

  


“Um … do I need that?” he asked the teacher, pointing at the hat she was holding in motionless fingers.

  


“Oh!” the professor actually seemed to blush in embarrassment at that, before quickly dropping the hat onto the rat bastard’s head.

  


“Daphne?” Tracey spoke up from beside her.

  


“What?” Daphne coolly clipped.

  


“You’re eye is twitching.”

  


And so it was. “It must be as eager as I am to discuss this name business with a certain soon-to-be dead man.”

  


“You’re not … _actually_ going to kill him … are you?” Tracey asked hesitantly.

  


“Are you familiar with the phrase ‘plausible deniability,’ Tracey?” Daphne asked, narrowing her eyes as she glared at He-Who-Has-Two-Names on the stool.

  


Tracey sighed. “Well, at least this year definitely won’t be boring!” she glass-half-fulled.

  


_Indeed_.

  


* * *

  


_God, this is boring_.

  


He had thought that Tracey’s sorting had taken a long time.

  


He now knew better.

  


Minute after minute ticked by as he sat, parked, hunched, perched, hunkered, and otherwise remained in the seated position on the bloody stool with the unresponsive hat on his head. However, at least he had the opportunity to distract himself from his rising boredom levels by remaining completely still and doing absolutely nothing, so … yeah.

  


What really confused him, though, was how the entire school kept whispering throughout the entirety of his excruciatingly long sorting. Sure, it made some sense at first. He imagined it was sort of noteworthy that someone hadn’t been paying attention and almost missed his name (or so he was told it was) when it was called. He could understand something like that generating a line or two of conversation about the idiot first year that almost missed his own sorting. But it had been _several minutes_ by now! What on earth were they all still talking about it for? And he knew it wasn’t just idle, unrelated conversation between bored and hungry students, either, since he kept hearing “Harry Potter” in practically every other breath.

  


Maybe they were just really caught up in how boring the name was. After all, “Shen” was objectively about a million times better, in his own completely unbiased opinion that certainly had nothing to do with it being the first “name” given to him by people who actually seemed to care about him and were not absolute fucking monsters.

  


Whatever the reason, they all sat and gossiped while he sat and … sat.

  


Eventually, however, the stern professor at his side seemed to become confused about the overlong sorting and decided to speak up.

  


“Um … Hat?” she asked the grungy lice-trap on Shen’s crawling scalp.

  


“Mmm? What?” the hat rasped out in his lifetime-smoker’s voice.

  


“Is … everything alright?” the professor asked uncertainly.

  


“Course. Everything’s fine,” the accessory answered her gruffly. “Don’t quite know why you’re dragging out the sorting, I’ll admit, but I’m certainly not going to complain. It’s nice to get a view of something other than that damned office. Still, you might want to think about giving me the next student to sort eventually.” The hat seemed to pause to think at that. “Or don’t. A riot of hungry students would undoubtedly make for a lovely change of pace around here.”

  


… _what …_

  


The professor at his side seemed as baffled as he was at the hat’s comments. “What are you talking about? We are currently waiting on you to finish sorting Mr. Potter.”

  


The hat took on an impressively condescending tone as it answered. “Well, I wouldn’t think I’d need to explain this by now, but I can’t exactly sort a student with the power of a good staring. I need to actually be placed on the student’s head.”

  


… _the hell?_

  


Shen decided to join in, since McGonagall seemed to have lost the power of speech. “Um, excuse me?”

  


“Eh?” Shen felt the hat tilt and twist as it looked around. “Who said that?”

  


“The student whose head you’re currently sitting on!” Shen answered in confusion and irritation.

  


He felt the hat shift on his head once more as he watched the battered tip of the hat and a pair of eye-shaped wrinkles peek over the tattered rim.

  


“Gaaaah!” the hat screamed in surprise, flailing around as if reflexively trying to fly away by flapping its wide brim. “Where’d you come from?!”

  


Shen was delayed in answering by trying to keep the stool from tipping over from how he had jumped when the hat suddenly started screaming. However, once the chair stopped break-dancing and his heart stopped trying to give it a beat to dance to, he was able to register the hat’s question.

  


He was not pleased with its implications.

  


“What do you mean, ‘where did I come from’? I’ve been under here forever!”

  


Next to them, the normally composed professor stood in stunned silence as the hat sputtered to answer. “B-but … but where’s your mind?!”

  


“My … mind?” Shen asked quietly.

  


The hat sounded even more frazzled than its appearance suggested by this point. “Yes! Your mind! That thing that resides in that squishy gray stuff between your ears! That thing that lets you walk and talk and lets me sort you into houses! _Where’s your mind_?!”

  


“You sort people … by reading their minds …” Shen felt his face burn scarlet in mortification as he only now realized what should have been a very obvious fact.

  


“Well, I don’t exactly do it by flipping a coin, now do I?! I don’t have hands! Or money! Or a _freaking mind to sort_!” The hat’s sanity seemed to be degrading the longer it dwelled on that fact.

  


Of course, by now, frustration was overtaking gut-wrenching embarrassment as Shen’s dominant emotion.

  


“So are you telling me I’ve been sitting up here this whole damn time and you haven’t even started?!” His butt was practically numb by this point.

  


“Oh, oh, oh, is the fact that I can’t magic facts out of thin damn air upsetting to you? Why don’t you trade places with me and try to sort _a fucking zombie?_!”

  


“Don’t call be a zombie, you fucking bonnet! Would it have killed you to provide a disclaimer? ‘Attention, students. I am a dirty old artifact that pillages minds to place children in a meaningless clique system. Please leave all mental barriers fully in their down position and prepare to be probed.’”

  


“I shouldn’t have to! For those who _have fucking minds_ , it should be pretty damn obvious that I have to read their thoughts!”

  


“Bonnet!”

  


“Zombie!”

  


“ _Enough!”_

  


Professor McGonagall, it seemed, had finally regained her voice, which was the exact moment when Shen realized just how dead silent it was everywhere else in the hall. Her shout echoed across tables filled with jaw-dropped students and speechless professors, none of whom had ever seen a student fight with a hat before. _Crap. Damage control_.

  


“He started it!” he and the hat cried out in perfect chorus.

  


“I don’t care!” Her nostrils actually flared she was so incensed. “Hat! You will kindly refrain from referring to students as zombies!”

  


“He has! No! _Mind!_ ” the unhinged hat complained.

  


“Whatever the circumstances!” the professor firmly, if somewhat confusedly, insisted.

  


“Fine!” the hat snapped, before muttering under its breath, “ _Vegetable_.”

  


“ _Traffic cone_ ,” Shen whispered back.

  


The professor deliberately ignored that. “As for you, Mr. Potter!”

  


Shen gulped. _I take it back. I don’t want to see her lose composure_.

  


She fixed him with a level glare. “I’ve never given a student detention before even being sorted before, but–”

  


“Ahem!”

  


A pair of rather tall, redheaded twins seemed to take issue with this claim as they stood at their table and gestured at each other.

  


“Oh, right,” the professor paused in distracted embarrassment before turning her steely gaze back on Shen. “Regardless, we here at Hogwarts hold certain standards in regards to language, and they _will be followed_. Is that clear?”

  


Shen swallowed. “Crystal, ma’am.”

  


“Glad to hear it,” Professor McGonagall responded. “Now then, if we could please get back to the sorting?”

  


“Oh, sure, let me just read this boy’s min–Oh, wait, _he doesn’t have one_!” the hat answered her, really caught up on this fact.

  


Shen sighed. “Well, if you’d give me a dam–uh, _darn_ moment, I can drop my barriers and let you in.”

  


“Barriers?” The hat sounded very confused at this. “What do you mean, ‘barriers’?”

  


Shen raised an eyebrow at the question, though this gesture was lost on the scrap of fabric on top of his head. “I feel like that term should be fairly self-explanatory.”

  


“Occlumency barriers can’t outright _hide_ a mind. They can only prevent access. I’d still be able to sense it,” the hat argued.

  


Shen exhaled in exasperation. “Well, then, _clearly_ I must be mistaken and I’m actually just a high-functioning zombie! Professor McGonagall, would you please take this stupid sombrero off my head so I can start chowing down on my fellow students’ brains? I’m awfully hungry.”

  


“Fine! You know what? Try and take down your completely fake ‘barriers’ so that when you fail, the professors can set you on fire like the zombie you are and I can go about my day.”

  


“Fine!”

  


“Fine!”

  


Not noticing a certain bearded headmaster suddenly leaning forward in keen interest, Shen closed his eyes and tried to blot out the sounds of the hat muttering to Professor McGonagall to get the axes and torches ready as he drifted into the fiery rivers of his magic. Turning his inner eye towards the barriers around his mind, he attempted to slowly draw back the shroud surrounding it. His difficulty in doing so didn’t lie in the actual effort of the task itself, however, but in fighting his almost panicky reflexes that were insisting that the shroud remain right where it was, thank you very much.

  


Those reflexes were fairly understandable, given how Grandmaster Manisha was prone to attacking his mind at any given moment back at the monastery. After numerous instances of suddenly being punched by his own hand, thrown to the ground by his own legs, or mentally convinced that he was wearing clothes when he was really walking around bare-ass naked, to general hilarity and personal mortification, needless to say, keeping his barriers up and his mind shrouded had become a _very_ deeply ingrained instinct. The shroud hiding his mind wouldn’t keep her from attacking his barriers if she knew where he was, of course, meaning he was _very_ on the alert whenever he would pass her in the hallways, but it kept her from tracking him throughout the monastery and launching surprise attacks no matter where he was, so mastering that little technique had become as important to his sanity as the actual barriers themselves.

  


And now he was taking them down.

  


It took several moments of forcing his heart rate to calm down and constantly chanting that she was several thousand miles away and would not be trying to make him literally kick his own ass before he could relax enough to lower the shroud, to say nothing of the effort it took to make himself open his barriers, too.

  


Eventually, however, he had them both down and had successfully fought off the reflex to bring them both back up immediately.

  


“Alright, we’re good,” he told the hat.

  


“Oh? You mean you’re admitting there are no barriers and that you’re actually just a zombie?”

  


He glared at the ragged hat brim. “Would you just check, you fu– uh, _freaking_ headgear?”

  


“Fine!” the hat snapped. “I’ll check your damn … uh, your damn … barriers …”

  


The hat’s tone drifted from irritable to distracted as he found the kid’s mind, and the barriers that had been hiding it. Upon trying to enter the boy’s mind, however, he was subjected to an entirely new experience for the ancient artifact. Typically, he would browse through the student’s thoughts and memories in an experience not too dissimilar from a person thinking through a past event.

  


Things were … a bit different this time. The entire hall fell away as the hat’s consciousness was pulled into Shen’s mind. The shocked speechless hat was left floating in what appeared to be a prismatic chamber made of brilliant red crystal etched and framed in clean, pure gold.

  


“What the … what is this place?” the hat asked aloud in wonder and confusion.

  


“The Leaky Cauldron,” a dry voice spoke from behind him, leading the hat to spin with a yelp to see Shen standing there dressed in his crimson apprentice robes. “What do you think it is? It’s my mind.”

  


“Your … mind?” The hat stared at the crystalline ceiling and walls, which almost looked like ruby windows, on the other side of which an eldritch fire roiled and burned constantly. The floor, by contrast, was formed of what looked like cool, glossy black obsidian, which gently mirrored the room’s visitors. Turning, the hat noticed the same brilliant gold that etched the walls formed columns placed periodically throughout the chamber. However, those columns seemed more like gently flowing rivers nearly frozen in time as they streamed from the ceiling to the floor, and each one glowed with a sun-like warmth, making the entire chamber glisten like early dawn while the glossy black floor glittered as if covered in morning dew.

  


“Well, a part of my mind, at least,” Shen spoke up. “It’s not like I’m just gonna give you free reign to peruse my entire psyche.”

  


“Right, right,” the hat answered distractedly, still staring in wonder at the room.

  


Shen frowned slightly at the floating hat. “Are you alright? For a mind-reading hat, you seem pretty surprised by a mindscape.”

  


“A mindsc–?” the hat shook itself. “Sorry. It’s just that your … ‘ _mindscape’_ … is a bit beyond what a normal eleven-year-old has when I sort them.”

  


“Really?” he asked.

  


The hat gave him a deadpan expression at the surprised tone in Shen’s voice. “Yes. Really.”

  


“Huh,” he replied before shrugging. “I guess I’ve had pretty good teachers.”

  


“I’ll bet,” the hat responded, staring once more at the unearthly room.

  


“So … should you get started on the whole sorting thing, then?” Shen asked.

  


The hat jerked a bit as it remembered why it was there. “Oh, right, of course!” It looked left and right, seeing only more solid walls and columns. “Erm … where do I go?”

  


Shen snorted at the confused hat. “Over here,” he told it, walking over to one of the walls, with the hat floating after him. Upon reaching the gold-etched crystalline red wall, however, it changed. The glossy obsidian floor flowed upwards, as did the glowing gold inlay tracing where the ruby wall met the floor. When everything stopped shifting, what remained in the middle of the crystalline wall was a gold-framed archway filled with black obsidian that gently flowed like a thin curtain of silky water.

  


“There you go,” Shen said casually. “I’ve partitioned off the last couple weeks’ worth of memories for you.”

  


“Gotcha,” the hat replied distractedly, still staring at the marvelous archway. However, he quickly registered what the kid said. “Wait, ‘the last couple weeks’ worth of memories’? That’s it? That’s all I get?”

  


“Yep!” Shen answered unashamedly. “After all, I don’t feel any particular need to just hand over my life story just to get placed in some arbitrary grouping system.”

  


The hat mouthed “arbitrary grouping system” before responding verbally and with some amount of heat. “‘Arbitrary’?! You’re talking about a custom that has been around for hundreds of years! This was put in place by _the founders themselves_!”

  


Shen was unimpressed. “Just because something has always been done a certain way doesn’t mean that it’s the only way it can or should be done. And as far as I can tell from how people have talked about the houses, this sorting system seems to breed a lot of division in the school, and it seems to make students identify solely with the traits that their particular house prizes while completely dismissing the qualities valued by other houses as either utterly worthless or even outright bad, despite the fact that any truly whole person should be more than just brave, or cunning, or smart, or hardworking.” Shen raised his hands. “But hey, that’s just me. I’ll admit that the division probably does a lot to bring out the competitive nature of the students, which is good, since it drives them to try harder and do better, but it seems to do a lot of harm in the process.”

  


The hat blinked its eye wrinkles as it stared at the surprisingly articulate and … not entirely inaccurate child. “So, clearly not Gryffindor, then,” it answered dryly. Shen snorted in amusement.

  


“Well,” the hat began, “I guess I’d better get started on my ‘arbitrary’ job.” With that, it floated towards the shimmering black curtain, gently shuddering as it passed through the chilled barrier. Shen waited in the crystal room, and so experienced the hat drifting back through the doorway almost immediately, at least from his perspective.

  


The hat gave him a rather judgmental look with its eye wrinkles. “‘Magical photosynthesis’?”

  


Shen got defensive. “It could happen! I mean, for god’s sake, you people have spells for turning _nose-hairs_ into _ringlets_! There’s gotta be a spell somewhere for something as comparatively non-ridiculous as getting energy from sunlight!”

  


“Whatever you say,” the hat assured him with a snicker.

  


Shen sighed. “Did you get what you needed, at least?”

  


The hat snorted. “You’re asking me to make bricks without clay here by only giving be a couple weeks’ worth of memories to use, but yeah, I guess I have what I need.”

  


“Good.” The archway melted back into the floor as he responded, returning everything to its previous appearance. “Ready to go, then?”

  


“I guess. Beam us up, Scotty!”

  


Shen looked at him in confusion.

  


“Muggle reference,” the hat explained. “Those muggleborn students have some interesting stuff squirreled away in their heads.”

  


“… Creepy,” Shen decided before pulling them out of his mind and back to the physical plane. With that, the sights and sounds he had only distantly been registering drifted back into prominence, leaving it feeling like he had stepped through a shadowy doorway into afternoon sunlight as he took in the warmly lit hall once more.

  


It seemed more disorienting for the hat on his head, which shook itself violently to clear its … head? Cone? Whatever.

  


“Well, that was an interesting experience, Mr. Potter,” the hat quietly said as it regained its bearings. It took a moment for Shen to realize that it was speaking to him. _I should really start trying to get used to this “Harry Potter” business_ , he decided, since everyone here seemed determined to call him by that name and he didn’t particularly feel like explaining to everyone he met why he preferred to go by a different one.

  


“So, it’s ‘Mr. Potter’ now, is it? No more calling me a zombie?” he asked the hat in amusement.

  


“Well … maybe a _very_ high-functioning zombie,” the hat happily amended.

  


He grinned.

  


“Excuse me,” McGonagall tartly interrupted their little bonding moment, “but if you could please proceed with the sorting, I am sure we would all very much appreciate it.”

  


“So … hungry …” one particularly dramatic student weakly called out, to a round of laughter and emphatic agreement. Blaise, meanwhile, simply stared at them silently from the unsorted students, as did the two girls over at the Slytherin table.

  


“Well, I suppose there’s no sense drawing it out,” the hat declared. “Better be …”


	8. Alright, no more treacle tart before bed

“… RAVENCLAW!”

  


This announcement was greeted with dead silence that echoed with surprise before the blue-and-bronze-themed table, which had been fairly reserved up until that point, absolutely exploded with wild cheers and whistles that rang with pure victory and triumph, like an underdog team winning a championship.

  


Shen– … _Harry_ had no idea why they were so excited, nor why the Gryffindor table in particular seemed so profoundly upset, as if someone had committed an egregious foul while the referee was mysteriously stricken with rapid-onset blindness. Even some of the unsorted students demonstrated perplexingly strong and varied reactions. The redheaded boy who had claimed sorting by troll fighting even loudly exclaimed, “That isn’t right!”

  


He had no idea what he or the others were going on about, but at that moment, he didn’t particularly care, even if he was somewhat curious about why one short, cheerful-looking white-haired professor was dancing on his seat at the staff table. Mostly, though, he just wanted off that damned stool.

  


To that end, he hopped off the cursed tripod and swept the hat off his head to hand to Professor McGonagall, who seemed to have lost some of her higher mental functions in shock at his sorting.

  


“See ya’, Bonnet!” he called out to the hat, where it dangled from the teacher’s nerveless fingers.

  


“So long, Zombie!” the hat returned with a clear grin in its mouth wrinkle.

  


As he headed towards the still raucous table, he turned and waved at Blaise and then Daphne and Tracey.

  


None of the girls waved back.

  


However, he was too busy dealing with an array of handshakes and back-slaps to really pay it much mind, which left him wondering whether Gryffindor was really the house that deserved the reputation for being loud and exuberant after all. He was left to wade through thickets of enthusiastic human limbs as he sought out an open seat amidst a table that seemed determined to make an opening everywhere he looked, which largely resulted in students shifting left and right like they were sitting on a hot skillet and leaving no stable openings whatsoever.

  


Eventually, however, he found a place between two girls who seemed too shy to move around as much as everyone else. As he took a grateful seat between them, the two suddenly stiffened and started blushing heavily. However, he was too relieved to be free of the grasping hands to ask questions.

  


Ignoring the continuing, if thankfully fading, back slaps, he turned and looked at the staff table to see if the short professor was still dancing. Sadly, he was not, though he seemed to be shooting rather smug-looking grins Professor McGonagall’s way for some reason, not that she noticed, as she was too busy trying to collect herself to continue the sorting.

  


However, as his eyes scanned the table once more, one pair of eyes drew his gaze above all others.

  


It didn’t belong to the hook-nosed man this time, but the bearded man in the throne. Earlier, he had compared the man’s eyes to the high grandmaster’s, as they both seemed filled with an indelible mirth and patience. Now, however, as he caught sight of the man staring at him, that happy twinkle was gone as if it had never been. In its place were two blue eyes as hard as stone, and instead of their previous warmth, he caught sight of something that somehow went beyond coldness, as if his eyes not only lacked warmth and feeling, but actually held the manifest absence of these things.

  


The glimpse was over as soon as it began, however. Between one blink and the next, the bearded man’s face had flashed back to its soft, kind warmth, changing so quickly and completely that he was almost convinced that he had imagined that horrible other face.

  


He knew he hadn’t, though … right?

  


Shaking off the sudden chill running down his spine, he turned back to the sorting in time to watch Professor McGonagall finally call the next student forward. Spotting Blaise still staring at him, he felt a momentary flash of pity for the girl. With “Zabini” for a last name, she was going to end up being the last one to be sorted, assuming there wasn’t some other student with “Zyngwe” or something as a family name.

  


_Sucker_ , he mentally laughed as he settled more comfortably into the bench.

  


When the hat screamed out another house, he noticed that this student’s applause sounded decidedly lackluster compared to the insane cheering that followed his own. However, given the way the student scurried to his table as if actually being burned by everyone’s eyes on him, he probably appreciated that fact.

  


Turning back, he saw Daphne and Tracey sitting across from him at the next table. Daphne was staring at him as intensely as ever, albeit with just a bit more death-ray-ishness in her eyes than usual, while Tracey acted like she was going to call out to him before Daphne elbowed her, resulting in her trying very hard to copy Daphne’s frosty demeanor.

  


She was rather adorably unsuccessful in that regard, appearing more like a puppy trying to look fearsome than a princess carved out of ice like Daphne.

  


Breaking eye contact with them before he cracked up, he decided to while away the time by making conversation with his benchmates.

  


“Hi!” he greeted them both.

  


“… mimble wimble,” one girl quietly whispered while the other silently impersonated a bowl of tomato soup … that was also really shy and embarrassed.

  


“… Well said,” he responded, nodding sagely as if to some great nugget of wisdom.

  


The swarthy-skinned girl sitting across from him giggled, apparently finding this amusing, though she turned back to the sorting rather than engaging him in conversation.

  


Foiled in his attempts at socializing, Shen drew his red and gold rowan wand and spent the next few minutes idly twirling it through his fingers as he stared up at the ceiling and once again tried to figure out the enchantments on it. _Is it like a window, like a scrying portal? Can they cast this to see what’s happening on the other side of walls?_ _Or can_ _they make it show any area?_ _If I saw it right, there’s a small tower on top of the roof_ _of this building_ _,_ _and that isn’t visible,_ _so it’s clearly not limited to only showing what’s directly on the other side of the surface it’s cast on, meanin_ –

  


“Zabini, Blaise.”

  


Closing his mouth once more, he turned in his seat to watch Blaise step up to the stool, and sure enough, she was the last one to be sorted. Lucky girl.

  


Unlike Daphne, the hat did not immediately cry out her house when set on her head. Instead, he watched its mouth wrinkle move as it apparently spoke with Blaise, though he was too far away to hear what it was saying over the quiet conversation spilling free from a few hundred bored students.

  


“SLYTHERIN!” the hat declared, earning Blaise a round of applause as McGonagall lifted the grungy artifact off her head. Also unlike Daphne, Blaise did not try to appear stoically indifferent to her sorting and instead openly wore a small, pleased smile as she walked towards the Slytherin table and the rest of her friends. As she passed the Ravenclaw table, though, she shot him a slightly narrow-eyed look. Not necessarily an angry one, but more one that suggested he was in a bit of a doghouse situation and had better have a good explanation/excuse when he next spoke with them. _Hmm._ _One would almost think they were_ _a bit miffed about_ _something_ , he mused as he watched her join the other two girls, where Daphne gave Blaise a cool nod before shooting him an icy glare that most certainly _was_ angry and more than a little hostile. In fact, he felt almost as if the temperature had suddenly dropped several degrees as she pinned him with that stare.

  


Tracey, by contrast, apparently didn’t care about any of this in the least, nor was she interested in playing it cool like Daphne. Instead, she gave Blaise a massive hug that almost sent them both tumbling to the ground as Blaise tried to sit.

  


_Wow. Poor Daphne’s gonna have her work cut out for her this year_ , he observed with a grin as the stoic girl tried to right both of her teetering friends and get Tracey to calm down all while pretending to barely notice what either were doing.

  


At that moment, silence began to ripple through the hall as all the whispering students began to slowly quiet. Turning back to the sorting area, he saw that the stool and hat had been taken away, and the bearded old man, who now slightly unnerved him, had stepped up to an ornate golden podium in the shape of an owl with widespread wings.

  


“Welcome! Welcome!” he called out merrily, with his arms spread wide as if to embrace them all. “I am sure that at this moment, you all find yourselves rather more intrigued by the disappointingly empty plates and goblets in front of you, but before we can correct that rather egregious detail, a few start-of-term announcements. To all of our first year students, and more than a few of our elder ones, please note that the Dark Forest is strictly off limits to all students.”

  


The old man suddenly took on a stern visage, resembling a grandfather reluctantly about to scold a favored grandchild as he studied them all over the top of his glasses. “Also, I feel the need to inform you that fighting is completely forbidden here at Hogwarts, and will merit severe punishment.”

  


He suddenly had to resist a rather strong urge to shout “BOOOOO!” Instead, he settled for turning and staring at the pale boy and his hulking bookends, who were huddled on the distant end of the Slytherin table practically reeking with bitterness and anger, especially Sir Flounce, who stared back at him in impotent rage before breaking eye contact and ignoring him. _Hmm. I’m guessing they’re the source of that little announcement. Or rather, whoever healed them was_.

  


“Additionally, please note that this year, the third floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to all those who do not wish to die a most painful death.”

  


He felt himself become very alert at those words. _The fuck?_ Looking around, he seemed to be the only one to find this to be a curious announcement, as everyone else simply nodded seriously as if it was the most natural thing in the world. _Oooo … kay. Just me then, I guess_.

  


“And finally,” the cheerful old man continued, undeterred by his grisly warning, “a few last words: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

  


“Thank you!”

  


Harry stared at the man as everyone started clapping. _I … no words. My words have failed me_.

  


He didn’t linger on Captain Whitebeard’s oddness for long, though, as to his ears, the room was suddenly flooded with the sounds of a chorus as the tables filled with food.

  


The wash of scent hit him almost like a physical force as he was suddenly assailed by the smells of roast chicken, pork chops, sausages, every type of potato prepared in every way potatoes can be, and so much more. He even felt his face slightly dampen from the wave of piping-hot steam rising from the bevy of food in front of him.

  


With a wide grin, he joined his housemates in scrambling to fill his plate with unreasonable volumes of the glorious bounty.

  


Sounds of delight echoed around him as various students relished the incredible meal, especially after such an overlong sorting. He didn’t blame them, either. Flavor seemed to explode across his tongue as he took his first bite, and between that and the food’s heavenly aroma filling their lungs so thickly that one almost felt they could feast on the air itself, he was rapidly deciding that this was probably the best meal he had ever had.

  


_Sorry, Asa_ , he halfheartedly apologized as he began truly digging in.

  


For a long time, all that could be heard throughout the hall was the clinking of forks against plates and the occasional thud of a goblet being set on a table, as everyone was too hungry and focused on the meal to talk much. However, around the time that he began reaching for seconds, and the rest of his classmates apparently felt assured that they would not, in fact, drop dead of starvation if they took too long between bites, the sounds of conversation started up once more. Not from the girls immediately around him, though. The ones on each side of him seemed too shy to speak as they ate with their arms close to their bodies as if afraid of jostling his elbow. Meanwhile, the girl across from him simply seemed more of the quiet type, happily engaged in her meal and showing no particular interest in starting conversation with anyone.

  


That was fine with him, though. He was interested in getting to know his classmates, but he also wasn’t exactly used to being around kids his age, either, as there weren’t any other apprentices near his own age at the monastery at the moment. In truth, he was surprised by how easy it was to talk to the girls back on the train.

  


Looking over at the Slytherin table once more, he quickly reassessed what he considered an unreasonable amount of food to pile on one’s plate, as Tracey seemed to be eating from a veritable mountain of steaks, chicken, potatoes, and more. A grimacing Daphne seemed very determined to ignore all of this, while a snickering Blaise kept surreptitiously adding the occasional chicken leg or lamb chop onto the pile. Displaying an unusually singular focus, Tracey seemed completely oblivious to both, apparently dedicated to cleaning her plate even if it killed her, which seemed a distinct possibility when comparing her small stature against the monolithic feast in front of her.

  


She was eventually foiled in her attempt, however, as some time later, all the food vanished from the plates. The sound Tracey made sounded like a strange mix of pained relief and gut-wrenching sorrow. However, the golden plates did not remain empty for long. They soon filled with a glittering array of desserts, including glistening blocks of ice cream, mountains of fudge, hills of treacle tarts, and every other dessert one could think of, including several that a person normally wouldn’t, which he assumed were more wizarding sweets.

  


However, as he loaded up his own plate once more, he noticed that Blaise and Daphne were, rather wisely, foiling all of Tracey’s attempts to do the same. He was rather glad to see it, as he felt a shudder run through him at the thought of a repeat of the train.

  


Shaking off the symptoms of his Post-Tracey Stress Disorder, he focused on enjoying the surprisingly delicious treacle tart and developing a plan for his time at Hogwarts. _Step one: Plunder this school for every scrap of magic that can be learned. Step two: … something exciting happens. Step three: Profit!_

  


He paused. _You know what, let’s see if we can’t refine that a bit further._ He sighed, having to really struggle to focus with the overpowering sweetness of treacle tart filling his senses. _Okay, let’s see …_ _I have training in magic, just not this kind of magic. Once I figure out the trick to making wand magic work, I suppose I_ could _just add that style of magic to my repertoire, but that seems like it would be more cumbersome than helpful, as I’d have to bounce back and forth between two different styles to do different things. Instead, I wonder if they can be … combined in some way?_ _Maybe_ _adapted into a hybrid form of magic that maintains the strengths of each style while hopefully losing some of their weaknesses? That would mean changing my own style of magic, but it seems like it would be more useful than trying to manage two completely different styles at the same time._

  


He nodded to himself, pleased with this very rough goal, even if he currently had no idea if it was really even possible. There was only one way to find out, after all. _Alright, that will mean finding space to train and experiment on my own, since I somehow doubt_ _that_ _the professors of a school like this will be as_ _thrilled about the idea of students experimenting with magic as the monastery was. Even if they were, I’d still need something more than a desk in a crowded classroom to work on my abilities. So, new step one:_ _Find_ _a place to train. Ideally, somewhere spacious and private._

  


He thought for a moment. _Maybe I should check out this “Dark Forest” place Merlin_ _Lite_ _mentioned._ _That sounded promising._

  


With a clink, he felt his teeth bite into a fork that had a curious lack of treacle tart on it. Pulling himself out of this thoughts, he noticed that all the plates had emptied once more. _I guess dinner’s over_ , he realized, brushing his fingers forlornly over the once sweet-laden plate.

  


“Now that we have all been fed and watered,” Professor Beardington called out from his golden podium, “it is time for bed. I hope you all rest well. Tomorrow promises to be a very big day. Until then, pip pip!”

  


_Oh, good, more nonsense. I was almost worried we’d hear something coherent from the man_. He joined his housemates in rising from the table.

  


“First years, follow me, please,” an older girl with long, curly brown hair called out to them as the hall echoed with variations of that same order directed at the other house tables.

  


He and the rest of the Ravenclaw first years trooped out of the hall following the random girl who could have been leading them all to a broom cupboard or something for all they really knew.

  


“For those of you who are wondering,” she called back as she started leading them through a labyrinth of staircases, “my name is Penelope Clearwater, and I’m a prefect for Ravenclaw house.” _Oh, okay_. “My fellow prefect is … somewhere, I guess.” Shrugging off her counterpart’s absence, she continued leading them down hallways and up staircases.

  


“And here we are!” she announced as they finally reached what felt like the top of an utterly colossal tower. At least, it seemed colossal when climbing all those stairs. “This is Ravenclaw Tower, and our common room is just through there.” She pointed at a door made of age-darkened oak set into the wall. However, the door lacked handles or any other apparent means of opening it. Instead, it had a large bronze doorknocker shaped like an eagle set into the center.

  


“Our entrance is a bit different from the other houses,” Penelope explained. “The other common rooms are locked by things like passwords or secret knocks. However, the house of Ravenclaw values wisdom and intelligence, and so our door can only be opened by answering one of its questions. These questions can be riddles or brain teasers, or they can be more about philosophy or logic. Answer the question correctly, and the door opens. Fail, and you will have to wait for another student to come along and answer a question, or you can hope someone inside will open the door to let you in.” The prefect’s face took on a wicked glint as she continued. “We _usually_ won’t leave you to spend the night outside.”

  


With that, she stepped up to the door and rapped the knocker. Shaking itself slightly, as if waking up, the bronze eagle opened its mouth and began to speak in a smooth, almost metallic voice. “Teresa’s daughter is my daughter’s mother. Who am I?” Around him, various first years began whispering to each other as they tried to figure out the answer to the riddle, while Penelope just stood there with an intense look of concentration on her face.

  


“… You are Teresa’s daughter,” she finally answered.

  


“Correct,” the eagle smoothly answered. The door clicked as it unlocked and swung outwards.

  


_Hmm. I would have gone with “a doorknocker” myself, but I guess her answer works, too_ , he thought as he followed the first years streaming into the room. Looking around, he marveled at the large, comfortable round room packed with plump couches and chairs, everything colored in a soothing blue and bronze theme, including the numerous rugs laid out in a manner that seemed as asymmetrical as it was relaxing, somehow. The walls, meanwhile, were bedecked with tapestries and portraits, each of them featuring moving figures and scenery, which made his eyes boggle.

  


“The first years, professor,” Penelope said to someone.

  


“Thank you, Penelope,” a somewhat squeaky voice tinged with an irrepressible cheeriness replied. It took him a minute to find the source. _Hey, it’s Tiny Dancer_ , he noted in amusement when he found him. Finally seeing him up close, he noticed that the professor had a rather bushy white beard that almost perfectly matched his fluffy white hair. His face was somewhat knobbly and wrinkled, and his nose was a bit too upturned to be considered conventionally attractive, but the man’s dark blue eyes more than made up for it, as they practically radiated good cheer and compassion in a way that made everyone almost reflexively smile in mirth at the sight.

  


“Greetings, everyone!” he happily welcomed them. “I am Professor Flitwick, charms instructor and head of Ravenclaw house. I would like to personally welcome you all to Ravenclaw. I am sure you will do us all proud.” Despite the similarities to Professor McGonagall’s words to them, this lacked any sense of being a subtle order or threat. Instead, his beaming face conveyed nothing more or less than a cheerful confidence that this would be a simple fact. “Now, before I let you all head to bed, a few quick rules and some advice. One: Curfew is at 10:00 pm, and this is _very_ strictly enforced. Being caught outside the dormitory after hours can and will earn severe punishment. Similarly, you are not allowed to leave the dormitory until after six in the morning.”

  


_So, I have guaranteed private training time from ten to six. Good to know_ , he thought with a smile.

  


Professor Flitwick continued. “Two: I would recommend leaving yourself a good deal of extra time when heading to your classes. The castle can be a tricky place to navigate when you are not used to it, though most older students, portraits, and ghosts will be happy to help point you in the right direction. However, DO NOT ask the Peeves the Poltergeist for directions unless you fancy spending half the morning roaming around hopelessly lost. He’s rather consistent in being as unhelpful as possible.”

  


_Poltergeists, huh? Awesome_. This was going to be a fun year.

  


“And finally, I have an office on the seventh floor. I want you all to know that you are more than welcome to come speak with me about any issues or concerns you may have, or sometimes even just to have a good chat. My door is always open. And with that, I would like to bid you all good night. I look forward to seeing you all in class tomorrow!”

  


“Good night, Professor Flitwick,” everyone rotely chanted out of some inexplicable student reflex as he left.

  


“You’re really going to like him,” Penelope assured them all as the door swung shut behind him. “He’s really a great teacher, and super nice. He was even a dueling champion back in his day.”

  


He perked right up at that detail. _Oh, hello_.

  


“Right, then,” Penelope continued, getting back on track. “That staircase on the left leads to the girls’ rooms, while the one on the right leads to the boys’,” she informed them, gesturing to two staircases breaking up the wall. “Each Ravenclaw student receives their own room, and once you pick it, a plaque will appear on the door with your name on it. That room will be yours for the remainder of your time at Hogwarts, so pick out a good one!”

  


As if those final words were a starter’s pistol, each of his fellow first years darted towards the staircases in a desperate bid to claim the best rooms for themselves before anyone else could.

  


He elected instead to hang back and watched the pell-mell scramble in the staircases, which included, but was not limited to, biting, clawing, robe snatching, trampling, and hair pulling (largely from the boys, amusingly enough).

  


“Is there even any difference between the rooms?” he wryly asked a snickering Penelope.

  


“Nope!” she answered with an unrepentant grin. “But a death match for the rooms is tradition.”

  


“Hmm,” he replied in a thoughtful tone. “Well, I’d hate to be untraditional!” he happily decided. Taking in a deep breath, he let loose a fearsome war cry as he joined the battle.

  


* * *

  


Elsewhere in the castle, a man draped in billowing black robes stalked through the corridors with his emotionally jumbled and confused mind on the now embattled preteen. Upon reaching a gargoyle set into the wall, however, the man’s lip curled in a sneer as he was forced to give the ridiculous passphrase.

  


“Licorice wands,” he spat, feeling the words almost burn in his throat.

  


Inane or no, the passphrase was accepted as valid by the stone guardian, which stepped to the side to reveal a spiraling staircase. With impatient steps, the man quickly ascended to a stone landing, not even bothering to knock as he reached a sturdy yet gleamingly oiled and immaculate pale wooden door.

  


“Come in, Severus,” a strong old man’s voice rather predictably echoed from the other side.

  


Opening the door revealed a circular room utterly filled with the arcane, from the enchanted portraits tracing the top of the wall to the shelves neatly filled with ornate silver instruments of unknown yet undeniably magical purpose. Deeper in the room, he caught the eyes of a large red and gold bird as it stood on its golden perch. As always, he felt a shudder run through him as the immortal phoenix seemed to stare straight though to his soul.

  


Gods, how he hated that bird.

  


“Sit, sit,” the genial old man behind the elaborate oak desk greeted him.

  


As usual, he wordlessly declined the offer, electing instead to stand.

  


“Lemon drop?” Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump, most talented wizard of his age, “champion of the light,” and holder of countless other titles, smiled airily as he held out a dish filled with sweets.

  


Snape had to close his eyes for a moment to keep from snapping. “No, _thank you_ ,” he instead answered as scathingly as possible.

  


Shrugging, Dumbledore helped himself to one.

  


Inhaling deeply, Snape calmly, at least for him, spoke. “So … the prodigal son has returned.” Well, one man’s calm remark was another man’s acid-dripping pronouncement, even if it was layered with a subtle cord of hollow confusion, not knowing how to feel about the son of Lily Evans walking the halls of the school.

  


The old man chuckled. “Indeed, it would seem so.”

  


“So, who found him? Was it you, or one of your … _hounds_?” His visage twisted in distaste.

  


Dumbledore gave him a look of silent rebuke for the term before answering. “In truth, no-one found him. In fact, until he stepped into the hall, I was under the impression he was still missing and would not be appearing.”

  


Snape drew up short at the admission. “You had no idea? At all?”

  


“Indeed not,” Dumbledore answered, shaking his head. “Of all the owls sent out, several did not return, but of those that did, all of them still carried his acceptance letter, and none bore a response. What’s more, none of my contacts in Gringotts even reported him visiting his vaults. Until he stepped through those doors, that boy was just as much of a ghost as he has been ever since disappearing from the home of his aunt and uncle all those years ago.”

  


Snape scoffed. “Idiot child. No idea of the danger he placed himself in by leaving. He likely simply thought it would be funny to remain hidden all these years. I would expect no less from the spawn of Potter.” That night still brought back powerful memories of rage and fear at learning of the disappearance of the boy, and he had no compunctions about directing them at that same child.

  


Dumbledore smiled. “Oh, come now, Severus. You and I both know that if the boy was hidden away all these years, it was someone else’s doing, not his own. Besides, he is as much Lily’s son as James’. His eyes prove that if nothing else does.”

  


Snape felt his voice die in his throat at those words. It was true. He knew the moment he saw the boy in the crowd of unsorted first years. He would recognize those haunting green eyes anywhere. He tried to retort, but he suddenly found his mouth too dry to form words.

  


“In fact,” Dumbledore continued, “I was surprised by how little of James could be seen in the lad. During his father’s time here, his most defining traits seemed to be his glasses, his long, messy hair, and his relatively short stature. Young Harry possesses none of these traits. Between that and his placement in Ravenclaw, I think it should be clear which of his parents he takes after.”

  


Snape finally found his voice again. “Oh, please,” he sneered. “You saw that production he made of the sorting ceremony. That had the stamp of Potter all over it.”

  


Dumbledore chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it did. I guess he does have some of his father in him after all. Minerva certainly thinks so, at least. She told me that she experienced quite a jolt when she saw the boy’s grin. It wasn’t until later that she was able to place it as his father’s.”

  


“Lovely,” Snape drawled in disgust at the thought of seeing any memory of James Potter walking these halls.

  


Dumbledore put on a thoughtful expression. “In truth, I find myself more curious about the hat’s initial inability to read the boy’s mind.”

  


At those words, Snape’s eyes drifted to a high shelf, where the still animated and apparently agitated hat was silently isolated behind glass once more.

  


“I take it that the artifact was unwilling to provide any clear answers on this?” he asked the headmaster.

  


Dumbledore chuckled. “Indeed not. It seems that the confidentiality charms woven into the device were rather strong. I attempted to break them, but apparently, in order to succeed, I would need to tear apart all of its other enchantments as well, which simply would not do.” He sighed. “I suppose the founders were justified in their paranoia, given the times they lived in, but it is still rather irritating.”

  


“Quite,” Snape agreed, still watching the soundlessly trembling artifact. “However, I may be able to shed a bit of light on this matter.”

  


Dumbledore nodded. “So, you did attempt to use legilimency on the boy.” His face took on an expression not unlike a father being amused by his children’s playful antics. “I thought you would, once you realized who he was. So, tell me, what did you find?”

  


Snape’s face twisted into a grimace. “Nothing.”

  


The old man raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t find anything?”

  


“No. I didn’t fail to find anything; I found nothingness,” Snape corrected. “There was nothing there to sense. No thoughts, no feelings, not even any barriers. As far as the legilimency probe was concerned, I was trying to read air. Whatever was shielding the boy’s mind, it wasn’t occlumency. In fact, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  


The headmaster nodded slowly. “That would align with the artifact’s complaints that the boy seemed to lack a mind.”

  


“But what sort of barrier would not just wall in a mind’s thoughts, but actually hide the mind itself?” Snape demanded, furious about being foiled by a child, and that particular child above all others.

  


“I do not know,” the wizened professor admitted frankly. “However, I think we can safely assume that wherever the boy was hidden, it wasn’t in the muggle world.” The old man grinned. “I simply hope that whatever other magic he may know, he doesn’t use it to revive his father’s legacy of pranks. I’m not sure this poor school could survive the trouble-making spirit of James Potter combined with the intellect of Lily Evans, especially with the backing of unknown magic.”

  


Snape felt his body shudder in a powerful mix of rage and horror at the idea, along with powerful pangs of sorrow at hearing the name of Lily once again combined with disgust that it was attached to the spawn of Potter. Wrapped tightly in those overwhelming emotions, he missed the penetrating eyes of the headmaster fixed upon him.

  


“Well, I suppose I will have to keep an eye on him then, won’t I?” Snape decided, his dark eyes glittering with bitter anger. “After all, someone needs to ensure that this school survives another Potter heir strutting about, and we can be sure it won’t be the son of … _James_.”

  


“And I’m sure that Lily Potter would be happy to hear that you were watching over her and her husband’s son,” the headmaster assured him.

  


Snape’s eyes shone with not just anger, but pure rage and hatred at the man’s comment, but none of it was directed at the man across from him.

  


“Without a doubt,” he whispered in a voice dripping with venom. Turning sharply, he stormed out of the office without another word.

  


“Have a good evening, Severus,” Dumbledore called out to him.

  


As the room echoed with the door’s slam, Dumbledore’s sparkling blue eyes suddenly lit up with a brilliant blue light as he stared through layers of stone and wood to watch the magical presence of the bitter and satisfactorily enraged potions master stalk away.

  


Drawing his ancient wand, he watched the stone gray sheen of his magic fold and bow as it took the neat and perfectly angled and ordered form of a locking charm on his door.

  


With his domain finally secured, the genial expression on his face melted away like fog in the desert, leaving only a mask-like face utterly devoid of emotion or kindness. The aching muscles in his face gratefully welcomed the absence of his constant smiles and affected warmth as he was once again allowed to luxuriate in the gentle comfort of pure logic without the distraction of petty emotion.

  


“Harry, Harry, Harry,” he gently whispered. “Whether by blood, chance, or nature, you certainly seem to possess a certain proclivity for creating trouble, don’t you?”

  


Reaching into one of the drawers in his desk, he drew forth an age-weathered letter.

  


‘ _To Mr. Albus Dumbldore:_

  


_Your position as magical guardian for one Harry James Potter is hereby null and void._

  


_Have a pleasant day._

  


_Signed,_

_Director Ragnok Bloodclaw_

_Gringotts Bank’_

  


Succinct as any goblin letter, this missive arrived at his desk years ago mere moments after one of his enchanted devices suffered a catastrophic failure. He still viscerally remembered how his blood had run cold at realizing that the wards protecting and binding the Boy Who Lived to his relatives’ home had broken. He hadn’t even had time to overcome his shock at seeing the delicate silver device spontaneously turn into a heap of molten slag before the letter had struck another blow.

  


What had followed was a number of long, sleepless nights, starting with him thoroughly interrogating the boy’s aunt and uncle. Upon satisfying himself that they truly knew nothing of where he was, confirmed with prodigious uses of legilimency, as well as more … _deliberate_ means, he began hunting.

  


For the next several days, even he had felt the grip of cold rage seize him as he failed to find any trace of the boy. All of his plans, all of the pieces in play for years, and it was all suddenly upended by one vanishing child, and by whomever had helped him to disappear. The only comfort he had during that time was that the boy was undoubtedly alive, as confirmed by yet another of his silver enchanted devices. But no matter what device he used or what spell he cast, he could find no trace of the boy anywhere.

  


He was eventually forced to put other elements in play to continue hunting for the boy, as his other duties could not be abandoned forever. His teeth grit at the need to do so, and at the plans that were irrevocably crippled or even outright destroyed by the decision, but he had no choice.

  


And then suddenly, there the boy was, walking through their doors bold as brass.

  


He was absolutely baffled as to what plans may have been in play by his caretakers to have returned him to Hogwarts so casually. After all the effort they must have gone through to hide him away, it made little apparent sense to suddenly return him to the public sphere and his own personal oversight. This … unnerved him. The board suddenly had new pieces in play, and he had no idea who they were, what they wanted, or what they were capable of. All he had was their pawn.

  


At least the boy gave him some vague hints as to their capabilities. He knew they were magically trained and very proficient in the mind arts, since they were able to train even an eleven-year-old to shield his mind so well. This meant he absolutely could not afford to attempt legilimency on the boy, since he might very well be able to sense such an attempt. He would leave that risk to Severus.

  


At that thought, his expressionless face took on a faint smile, though it would never have been called warm or comforting. _Hopefully, Severus will also be able to provoke the boy into showing his hand a bit more so we can get a better picture of what he, and by extension his masters, can do_. He had a great deal of faith in Severus’s ability to succeed in this. The man was as talented at antagonizing others as he was easy to be riled up himself.

  


Though, as his still glowing eyes traced the magical aura of his wand, he considered the other ability that the boy’s masters had revealed.

  


The ability to destroy blocks on a child’s magic.

  


His nose twitched at the phantom whiff of ash and blood that filled his mind as he reflected back on that night all those years ago when Voldemort was vanquished, however temporarily. He remembered stepping over the lifeless form of Lily Potter as he gazed on the tortured, broken core of the boy who was prophesied to destroy the Dark Lord. He remembered his amazement at the fact that his core had remained alive at all after the degree of trauma it had endured, which had forced parts of it to revert back to the formless, liquid state all children were initially born with before it began to shape itself into the form required by their magic.

  


Knowing this would inevitably cause the boy’s magic to be wild and uncontrollable, he bound the core tightly to prevent all but the faintest whiff of his power from escaping. This would not only ensure that the boy was not destroyed by his own magic, but also guarantee that the one with “power he knows not” would not grow beyond his abilities to shape and control.

  


And now, that barrier was gone as if shattered like glass and swept under a rug. Infuriating though that was, however, what truly baffled him was how the boy’s magic showed no sign of the wild and uncontrollable nature it should have had despite never having solidified fully. The boy showed neither signs of accidental magic nor evidence that he feared or expected such.

  


He didn’t know what to make of the boy’s apparent ability to accomplish the impossible and maintain control over a core that should, by its very nature, have been utterly uncontrollable, but he did know one thing: He would be keeping a very, _very_ close eye on young Harry Potter this year. It didn’t matter what masters he served or what they taught him. His plans were simply too important to allow them to be jeopardized by anything. Lord Voldemort would rise and be defeated, and his own vision of the magical world would finally be fulfilled.

  


“For the greater good,” he whispered, “I will do what must be done.”

  


He had to. After all, the world’s survival depended on it.

  


* * *

  


“ _Harry.”_

  


He ignored the strange voice echoing in his ears as if the very trees around him were speaking. He had no time to listen. He had to run.

  


He tore through underbrush and flung himself at branches as he continued his frantic dash, sure of one thing and one thing only:

  


No matter what happened, he had to keep moving.

  


He heard the snap of twigs and the whispers of cloth on leaves as his pursuer chased him. His ears twitched as they caught the faintest hints of a silvery voice behind him before jets of light began striking at the trees all around, sending wooden shards pelting into his cheek and his legs. Gasping for breath, he knew he had to change tactics. Simply running in a panic wasn’t enough.

  


He began darting from tree to tree as he evaded his hunter’s gaze. The forest was cast in a silvery hue from the moon overhead, but brighter light meant deeper shadows. All around him, the trees cast long, spidery reflections of themselves on the ground, each one as black as ink and as deep as the void, and he darted from one to the other, welcoming each dark sanctuary like the embrace of an old friend as he ran and hid from his pursuer.

  


His hunter’s stony blue eyes could not pierce those deep black pools the way his own could. The forest was lit in an even brighter silver glow from his pursuer’s fury, but that just made the shadows darker.

  


Grinning, he continued his silent, shadowy flight as his pursuer was forced to investigate each black pool he came across, unable to find his quarry.

  


The distance between them grew, and he settled from a panicked flight into an easy lope.

  


By the time he could no longer see his foe’s hunched form investigating the shadows, he had come to a treeline at the edge of a creak.

  


His mouth twisted in a snarl. He hated the water, but he knew he couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving.

  


Scanning the creak, he grinned in triumph as he spotted several stepping stones downstream leading to the other side.

  


“ _Mind your step, Harry_ ,” that alien voice intoned. _“Your path is long and treacherous_.”

  


He had no idea what it meant. There were only seven stones. Dismissing it as unimportant, he stepped over to the stones.

  


Reaching them, he hopped from the bank onto the first, the faint echo of his landing swallowed up by the sound of the rushing water.

  


He hopped onto the next.

  


And the next.

  


He grinned as he hopped onto the next one, seeing the trees on the other side and hearing their whispers of safety as the breeze rustled their leaves. His nose twitched at the tantalizing scent of leaves and earth and musty old bark from fallen logs.

  


As he jumped onto the next stone, he watched the trees’ silky black shadows reaching out to him as one of their own. He gave a wolf-like grin of anticipation, feeling the eagerness to run and fight fill his veins and cloud his senses as he jumped onto the next stone.

  


With a crack, the stone lurched and crumbled under his foot. The roar of the stream filled his ears like war drums as he wobbled and teetered on the vanishing stone.

  


In desperation, he gracelessly hurled himself hands first at the final stone before the river could swallow him up, trying in a panic to at least grab the stone before he was swept away.

  


He landed, and the stone shattered like glass. Shards pierced his chest and sliced his face like knives as he sank below the surface of what was once a gentle creak and was now a torrential river that dragged him down into its lightless depths with a cruel, almost deliberate intensity.

  


Water filled his lungs and swallowed his screams as his hands clutched at his bloody chest and eyes, and he lost any sense of up or down, utterly and completely lost in the crushing depths as the river claimed him as its own.

  


“ _You will be overwhelmed, drowning in the might of your enemies_ ,” the voice returned. “ _You must stay strong. You must_ fight _!_ ”

  


As he floated there with lungs straining and chest weeping crimson tears, he saw something between his fingers.

  


Something big.

  


Like lightning, the being launched itself at him. Blindly, he reacted on panicked instinct, snapping his arms out and catching hold of massive fangs before they could close around him and swallow him whole. The being screeched, making his ears join his chest in bleeding as the being thrashed and roiled.

  


His body was flung gracelessly about as the water dragged at his movements as if determined to assist the creature in tearing him free. Eventually, it succeeded.

  


He was left spinning in the icy water, half blind and lungs burning, trying desperately to stare in every direction at once to find the creature.

  


In horrified agony, he felt the creature’s massive, fang-filled mouth snap closed around him from behind. The water stole his screams once more as the fangs pierced his upper back and shoulders all the way to his elbows, while still more pierced his sides along his bottom ribs. Lightning bolts of pure, unfiltered agony shot through every nerve as the creature violently shook him like a dog with a rat. All the while, he just hung there limp, so overwhelmed with pure horror at his wounds that he simply couldn’t process what was happening.

  


The creature’s mouth opened. He felt its fangs catch and then tug free of his ruined flesh like a daggers being pulled out of their sheathes.

  


For an eternity, he simply floated there, surrounded by a wine-dark cloud of his own blood. He was utterly overwhelmed. He was defeated, broken. These were mortal wounds. He felt his vision dim, but as he slowly, agonizingly blinked his eyes, he realized it was the creature floating in front of him. Its massive form blocked out all remaining light as it relished its victory, watching in pleasure as he languished in agony and terror, dying.

  


He watched the creature lazily open its mouth, smugly taking its time as it prepared to finish him. He caught a glimpse of pale fangs coated in inky dark stains from his blood, felt tremors in the black water as its jaw creaked. He closed his eyes, drowning in horror and shame as he faced his end.

  


_I didn’t even really get a chance to fight_ , he thought in anguish, unable to believe that everything he had done, everything he had suffered and sacrificed, had all led to this quiet, ignoble end.

  


With a warbling screech of triumph, the creature lunged forward, finished savoring its meal and prepared to consume it at last. Its fangs closed in … and were held fast.

  


His arms bulged with monstrous strain as the creature attempted to close its dagger-filled mouth and seal his doom, but its jaw never moved, its fangs caught once more in the now utterly unwavering grip of its would-be prey.

  


_No_ , the boy’s mind echoed as he opened his eyes to stare down the gullet of the ravenous beast. _This is not how I will die._

  


He braced his feet against the struggling beast’s fangs, and he _heaved_. His muscles joined his wounds and his lungs in screaming under pure, utter agony, but he didn’t care. He was not prey, not for this or any beast. Howling silently in the water, he heard the muscles in his back creak as he heaved once more.

  


With a thunderous crack, the fangs in his hands snapped free, leaving the creature to shriek and twist in pain. He gave it no respite, though. Swimming forward, he grabbed onto its thrashing head, and he _fought_.

  


His arm rose and fell in a brutal rhythm as he stabbed the creature with its own fang over and over like some crude, blood-blackened dagger in his hand. Water wrenched at his limbs and tore at his clothes as the creature swam and bucked to throw him off, but he refused to let go. Over and over and over, until his vision ran completely black from the blood in the water, both the creature’s and his own, he _fought_.

  


The fang crumbled in his hands, but he wasn’t done. Snarling, he abandoned all sense of reason or civility as he clawed and tore and bit at the creature, no longer resembling a person so much as some rabid, feral beast as he fought without grace, or elegance, or even humanity. The flailing, screeching creature broke the surface of the water in its desperation to be rid of him, but he didn’t let go. The creature’s flesh tore under his clawed fingers like paper-mâché as he mindlessly tore at it, and it crumbled like dry wood in his snarling mouth as he savaged it, but he didn’t stop, _couldn’t_ stop, until the beast gave one last shudder and collapsed, moving no more.

  


Water vomited out of his mouth as his body finally stopped and tried desperately to force much need oxygen into his water-logged lungs. That first taste of air was as sweet as it was agonizing as his tortured lungs heaved and shuddered. He rolled off of the creature’s corpse, landing on ice that stuck to his soaking wet clothes like tape to a fly.

  


“ _You will be consumed, lost in your own power and in the battles you wage. You must remember who you are, and why you fight, or all will be lost along with you_.”

  


His eyes flashed in animalistic fury at the sound of the voice. Tearing himself free of the ice freezing itself to his clothes, he threw back his head and roared at the sky, echoing across the ice like a pack of massive invisible beasts. He feverishly scanned the area around him, desperate to find something else, _anything_ else to fight. His blood _burned_ for more. There was nothing, though. The trees, the corpse of the creature, all of it was gone. There was nothing more than blue-white ice, sheer and unbroken, stretching smoothly to every horizon, and beyond.

  


_No. No no no no NO! There has to be more!_ Panting in rage and desperation, he spun around, his fevered mind hoping that maybe there would be something hidden behind him if he looked quickly enough. But there was nothing. Just more ice.

  


_I need more! I need prey!_ His blood roiled and burned in rage and ravenous hunger for combat. It built and built within him. There was no outlet, no target, nowhere for it to go. It scorched his veins and inflamed his mind, and still it grew.

  


The air caught fire around his pacing, raging form as he howled and snarled and _begged_ for something, _anything_ to fight.

  


_A monster, a person, ANYTHING! I NEED TO FIGHT!_

  


Steam clouded his vision as the fire shrouding him grew, melting the ice beneath him, but he didn’t notice. He couldn’t handle this. He was all alone, and he needed _more_. The ravenous hunger—the absolute _starvation—_ for a fight flooded his mind and his blood, made every fiber of his being vibrate harder and harder until his entire body felt like it would tear itself apart. All the while, the utter maelstrom of fire surrounding him grew larger and larger, scorching the ice he tread.

  


He screamed, unleashing a primal, inhuman sound of rage and pain as he lashed out with the fire around him, destroying the only thing there was to destroy.

  


The ice.

  


With wild, uncontrolled movements, he flung wave after wave of the roiling, raging fire. However, the mindless attacks didn’t just melt the ice. They shattered it like glass. Everywhere the fire struck, the ice crumbled and tore and fell, leaving vast stretches of utter blackness as the melted shards fell into some hollow, unfathomable emptiness below.

  


Again and again he struck out, utterly mindless in his rage and his craving to destroy. The once flawless plane of ice now resembled a drawing of some demented black sun with broken, corrupted lines and waves radiating out from him, its rabid, roiling center.

  


The thin, broken ice around him crackled threateningly as he destroyed what little supports it had left, but he didn’t hear it, any more than he heard the faint, tinkling bells of small shards breaking free and falling.

  


He didn’t hear the terrifying silence as no sound ever echoed back up from the ice striking the bottom.

  


He raged and attacked and destroyed, but it wasn’t enough. This scorching hunger couldn’t be sated, even as it utterly enslaved him into trying anyway. It could only grow. And _consume_.

  


He fell trembling to his hands and knees, pausing for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. The fire around him scorched and burned and _demanded_ he continue, but he couldn’t. He had nothing left. His gasping breaths pulled more of the fire back into himself, searing his lips and charring his throat black, but he didn’t care.

  


With spasming muscles, like a puppet with an amateur working the strings, he jerkily sat back on his heels and lifted his head, staring aghast at the vast wasteland of devastation surrounding him. Everywhere he looked, he saw only raw, gaping blackness surrounded by mangled, broken ice like the rubble of some once great city.

  


“… what have I done?” he whispered in horror.

  


With a thunderous crack like the bones of the earth itself breaking, the maimed ice finally gave way completely. His stomach leaped into his throat as he fell, joining the ruined, mangled ice as he descended into the formless black void below.

  


For an eternity he fell, broken and alone. The darkness didn’t embrace him like the shadows did. It blinded and smothered him. It filled his lungs and coated his skin like oil until he felt that there couldn’t possibly be anything more in the world than that horrible blackness.

  


And still he fell.

  


“ _What will you be when all is stripped away?_ ” the voice asked, its quiet, gentle tones equally as soothing as they were unnatural in the smothering silence of the void. “ _Will you be savior, or destroyer? Monster, or champion? The depths of you run deeper than you know. But will you descend into the darkest, most retched pits of who you are, or will you aspire to be …_ more _?_ ”

  


For the first time in an eternity, he experienced something more than the weightless sense of almost unbeing in that horrible black nothingness. He felt wind.

  


Suddenly, he gained a sense of direction, of up and down. He turned to look beneath him, and over in the distance, far, far below him, he saw a light. Faint and flickering, but it was there.

  


He was going to miss it, though. He could see it draw closer as he fell farther and farther, but it was so far out of reach. Desperately, he tried angling his body, even flailing his arms and legs in a twisted parody of swimming as he tried to move himself without any leverage to do so. Nothing.

  


“ _If you would aspire to more_ ,” the voice returned, “ _then you will need a reason to_ be _more._ _What will yours be?_ ”

  


He was still falling. He didn’t have much time. _What will mine be?_ He didn’t know. He thought about the joy he felt as he mastered his powers, of the thrill of sparring and the pride of exceeding his limits, of being more than he was the day before, every single day.

  


His body gave a lurch forward, but not by much, and the light was still so far away.

  


He thought of the grins of Master Faraji, and the approving glint in Grandmaster Takashi’s sober eyes. He thought of Asa’s hugs, and Grandmaster Manisha’s small but proud smiles, and Feng’s quiet chuckles.

  


He lurched forward even farther.

  


Still falling, he was growing desperate. The light was still so far away. He thought of the high grandmaster’s strange little smiles and inscrutable eyes. He thought of Tasya’s blank, motionless face, and of the subtly glimmering eyes set deeply within it that revealed so much more feeling than her lips or her brow ever did.

  


He slid forward even more, almost gliding through the air, but then he stopped and returned to his purely downward motion as the light sped closer.

  


Panicking, he knew he was almost out of time. He needed something more than all the little things that drove him on. Reaching back, all the way to the time he never liked to visit even in the deepest recesses of his own mind, he thought of … their house.

  


So much of who he was had been born in that place, and in his dark, frozen cupboard. It was there that he learned the truth of fear. And of power. It was there that he learned just how weak he was, and how much hatred he had for that part of him. It was there that his ravenous hunger to be _more_ was given life, as he strove each and every day of his life to be more than that retched, mewling little thing cowering in that tiny box under the stairs, or huddled at the feet of the forgemasters that were his relatives, so determined to bend and break him as they hammered him into something new like a blacksmith working a weeping lump of iron. He despised them for it, but he hated himself most of all. After all, he was the one weak enough to fear them. He was the one pathetic enough for them the be able to hurt and ruin him. And he was the one who would never be that … _less_ … ever again. He would be _more_.

  


He waited to move forward once more.

  


It didn’t happen.

  


With horror, he even watched the glowing light shrink down to almost nothing as he hurdled downward. He lost the feel of wind from his fall, as the darkness crept once more like oil over his skin, deadening him to the outside world, such as it was in that black void that reminded him so much of his cupboard.

  


_No. No, please no_. He didn’t want to stay there. He wanted the light. He wanted to be more. Crying, he tried once more to swim, to physically move his body forward over the oncoming light, but to no avail. It was so small, and it was drawing level as he raced downwards with no way to reach it.

  


He had nothing else. That was it. His drive to be more. That was what pushed him so hard to succeed at the monastery, and that was what compelled him to go to Hogwarts. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head in grief, knowing that he wouldn’t reach the light as he fell through that dark nothingness.

  


Idly, he found his scattered, hopeless mind drifting back to earlier that very day. He found himself thinking about the girls from the train. He thought about Daphne’s stoic iciness, and of the warm depths that she tried so hard to hide, but which he saw in her anyway. He thought about Blaise, with her easy smiles and snarky humor that made him feel so at home with people he barely even knew. He thought about Tracey, and her endless exuberance and cheerful innocence that drew him in as if he’d known her all his life. He thought about how much fun they had, and how much more he had hoped to have again as they came to know each other at school. He thought about how much he wanted to share with them, and of how much he had longed, for the first time in his life, to finally have friends.

  


Caught up in these thoughts, he never noticed his body slowly yet steadily gliding forward as the light below grew and grew. It wasn’t until he opened his eyes to see the light directly beneath him like a glowing wound in the endless, physical darkness of the void that he realized he had moved at all. The light washed over him like a warm, soothing caress as he left that darkness behind and landed with a surprisingly soft thump on warm grass and loose, living brown earth.

  


For several moments, he simply lay there, breathing deeply as he stared up at the glittering, star-filled sky through the treetops. His muscles quivered with the fear and hopelessness that had seized him so thoroughly in its grasp before escaping that terrible place.

  


Somehow.

  


“So, what’s next, Lady?” he croaked, his tortured throat and lungs barely even able to form words by this point. “Setting me on fire and warning me to keep a cool head? Maybe burying me under a pile of rocks and telling me I’ll be under a lot of pressure? Ooh, or maybe that things will be a bit _rocky_ for me?”

  


He snickered at his own joke before devolving into groans as his tortured body protested.

  


“You know what?” he finally rasped. “Just go ahead and do your worst. I’m too tired to care anymore. So you just do whatever weird thing you’re going to do next, and I’m just going to lay here and take a nap. Don’t mind me.”

  


With that, he settled more comfortably into the cushion-soft grass and dirt and closed his eyes, feeling his aching body gladly accepting rest. His breaths deepened and his muscles relaxed as he lay there, hearing nothing but the quiet whisper of a breeze blowing through the leaves, while the soothing aroma of a forest filled his lungs and eased him closer and closer to sleep.

  


Before drifting off completely, however, he felt compelled to open his eyes once more.

  


What he saw turned his blood to ice.

  


Standing over him was the hunter, and his wand was pointed right at him.

  


The wand scared him, but it was the man’s cold, pitiless eyes that truly filled him with terror.

  


The man intoned some unknowable spell, and silver light tore through him.

  


Blinded and screaming, he scrambled to free himself from what felt like the smothering grasp of a straightjacket. Tearing himself free of his cloth prison, however, he realized he was no longer in the forest. He drew one heaving, terrified breath after another as his panicked eyes darted from one shadowy corner to another, desperate to figure out where he was now and where the hunter was hiding.

  


However, upon spotting the window, and the view outside, he realized that he was back in his room in Ravenclaw Tower. Glancing down at his bindings, he further realized that they were the sheets of his bed, though cloth scraps would better describe them now.

  


Gradually, his breathing began to slow and his heart stopped trying to burst free of his chest. Slowly calming, he raised his hand to wipe the cold sweat from his brow. However, he paused to stare at the limb, which was visibly spasming from the stress of his insane dream.

  


“Oh, look at that. A twitch,” he dryly observed. “Freaking called it.” Groaning, he collapsed back onto his bed.

  


“This is going to be a long year.”


	9. A charming first day

“Light … growing dim … too weak … to carry on …”

  


“It’s been five minutes, Blaise,” Daphne retorted in exasperation.

  


“Tell my mamma … that I love her …,” Blaise answered Shakespeareanly as she lay on Daphne’s bed with the back of her hand pressed dramatically to her head.

  


“You’re actually hungry, Blaise?” Tracey asked from her own spot on the bed, where she was laying with her head hanging upside down over the edge. “I’m still full from last night.”

  


“Well, that tends to happen when someone consumes five times their body weight,” Daphne explained dryly. “Imagine that.”

  


“ _Foooood_ ,” was Blaise’s ever weakening reply.

  


“Well, I’m so sorry that some of us actually have to work on our appearance, Blaise,” Daphne huffed, though without any real heat. “Not all of us can be born with perfect cheekbones and skin tone and hair and everything and not have to do anything with any of it.”

  


“I guess that’s true,” Blaise answered rather smugly, finally sitting up on the bed with a wide smirk.

  


“Did I brush my hair this morning?” Tracey asked herself quietly, trying to remember. “… yes.”

  


Blaise looked at her.

  


“I think,” she amended.

  


“Given how your hair is currently moonlighting as a mop on my floor, I think that question is rather moot at this point,” Daphne pointed out, turning to look pointedly at where Tracey’s rat’s nest was dragging on the rug from where her head was hanging almost to the ground.

  


Tracey responded by whipping her head back and forth, swinging her hair against the floor to deliberately make it worse.

  


Daphne sighed, turning back to what she was doing.

  


“ _Wasting away_ …,” Blaise dramatically intoned once more, falling back on the bed in a mock faint.

  


“Ugh, fine! I’m done. Let’s go,” Daphne snapped, throwing her stuff down and grabbing her schoolbag.

  


“No no no, take your time. I wouldn’t want to rush you,” Blaise assured her. “I’ll just lay here and quietly fade away. You just keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t mind me.”

  


Daphne glared at her. “If you’re not out that door in two seconds, I am going to hurt you.”

  


“ _Fine_ ,” Blaise relented in a put-upon voice as if being forced to leave. Daphne had to close her eyes and breathe deeply to keep calm at that. “Come on, Trace.”

  


While Blaise actually sat up and climbed off the bed, Tracey decided it would be more effective to simply tumble onto the floor in a heap and then move on from there. She happily bounded out the door an utter mess of tangled hair and wrinkled clothes.

  


A bug-eyed Daphne thought she’d literally swallow her tongue at the sight.

  


“It’s alright, Daphne,” a grinning Blaise comforted her, patting her on the back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  


“But she … her clothes … and her hair …”

  


“I know,” Blaise told her in mock understanding as she wrapped her arm around the speechless girl’s waist and half-supported her out of the room. “Just try and distract yourself with something comforting. May I suggest, plans for making a certain boy with too many names suffer when you see him later?”

  


Daphne’s eyes flashed as she perked right up. “That actually does help. Thank you, Blaise.”

  


Blaise grinned widely. “My absolute pleasure.” After all, so long as Daphne was focused on him, she wasn’t remembering how Blaise had embarrassed her during her sorting, which worked for her. _Thank you, He_ _-_ _Who_ _-_ _Cannot_ _-_ _Be_ _-_ _Named._

  


They met up again with Tracey near the end of the hall.

  


“What is it, Trace?” Blaise asked, catching sight of her grimace.

  


“ _Him_ ,” she answered in a dramatic whisper, nodding at the corner.

  


_Oh, great_.

  


Glancing at her other friend, Blaise watched Daphne’s mask settle fully back in place, with an extra helping of frost to make sure it stuck. “Well, we’ve managed to go a full 18 hours without an encounter with the ponce. I suppose 19 really would have been too much to ask for,” Blaise reasoned, accepting the inevitability of the encounter to come.

  


“Indeed,” the Ice Queen beside her replied before gliding forward and around the corner with a grace and poise that Blaise knew she’d never be able to manage herself. Still, she gave it her best effort as she fell into step behind her, with Tracey groaning as she reluctantly followed.

  


“Daphne!” Malfoy called out after only two steps, which was twice as far as she had expected them to manage, really.

  


“Malfoy,” Daphne coolly and formally replied with a rote dip of her head, never making eye contact and never breaking stride as she headed towards the door.

  


Malfoy tried to smoothly step in their path, but unable to quite manage Daphne’s graceful yet surprisingly quick pace with the same level of poise, he was forced to scramble into place. His ever-present pet rocks in robes followed behind with absolutely no veneer of grace at all.

  


Daphne drew to a stop while passing Malfoy a look that, while overtly formal, carried clear undertones of a queen staring at a pauper who had just forced her carriage to stop. _Seriously, how on earth does she manage that level of nuance in her expressions_ , Blaise wondered for the umpteenth time.

  


“I thought I would escort you down to breakfast,” he declared, holding out his arm for her to take, as if there were no other possible answer she could give than to accept.

  


Rather than take the arm, however, Daphne simply stared at him silently for a moment, which caused him to flush as he remembered what happened the last time he used the phrase “I thought” around her.

  


“Thank you, Malfoy, but I must decline,” Daphne finally answered, turning away and stepping around him in a very quiet yet utterly final way of saying that the conversation was closed.

  


Of course, whether blindly or willfully, Malfoy ignored the signal, dancing back in front of her. “I’m afraid I must insist,” he told her with a certain measure of heat in his eyes, like a child demanding another return a toy when they weren’t doing so.

  


“As must I,” Daphne answered, once more frostily polite as she stepped around him yet again, this time without pausing at all.

  


“You know, I don’t understand you, Greengrass,” Malfoy snapped, now simply following in her wake.

  


“I am sure there are a great many things you don’t understand, Malfoy,” Daphne replied. “Don’t worry. I have not doubt that you will become used to the sensation in time.”

  


Blaise had to fight a snicker at her friend’s retort, while Tracey tried to cover up her own with a cough.

  


She wasn’t very successful.

  


Malfoy, however, ignored them all. “I’m nice to you. I’m polite to you. Why do you _insist_ on making this so difficult?” His words gathered vitriol as he spoke, but Daphne still stared forward as if he wasn’t there.

  


“I’m afraid I do not know what you mean,” she somehow said blandly and coolly at the same time. “Now, if you will excuse me.” They were at the door by this point, and Malfoy was forced to remain behind as they filed out the door after Daphne.

  


_What are the odds that he doesn’t follow us out_ , Blaise mused resignedly.

  


The immediate clatter of rapid footsteps answered her silent question just as she had expected, though she hadn’t anticipated what he did next.

  


Darting forward, Malfoy grabbed Daphne’s left arm and jerked her around to face him.

  


“Now look!” he yelled, his face red with anger, “I don’t know what your problem is, but I am through with these games. So here’s what’s going to happen: You and I are going to go down to the Hall, and we are going to have breakfast together. You are going to smile, you are going to be nice, and you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Draco.’”

  


Blaise grabbed Tracey’s arm as she started forward with the clear goal of pummeling Malfoy, something the two hulking bookends clearly noticed as they stepped between them and Malfoy.

  


Tracey shot her a confused and infuriated look.

  


“Trust me, she’s got this,” Blaise whispered, turning to watch.

  


Daphne turned to stare at the hand around her upper arm, and then back at Malfoy, making eye contact with him for the first time.

  


“Do you really expect to force this?” Daphne asked in a voice that bit at the air like wind in the frozen tundra as she stared down at Malfoy, both figuratively and literally, given how she was actually half a head taller than him, though the difference seemed much more dramatic at the moment.

  


“Why not?” the still flushed Malfoy answered in a snarl that seemed to be trying to pass itself off as a smile, and badly. “You wouldn’t want me to tell my father about your behavior, would you?” Blaise watched the muscles in Daphne’s jaw tighten as she grit her teeth at the ponce’s threat.

  


“And besides,” Malfoy continued, now with an expression closer to a smirk than a snarl, “it’s not like you have your little _hero_ around to fight for you this time, now do you?”

  


Blaise watched in a mix of thrill and terror as Daphne’s eyes took on a dangerously dark glint at those words. _Oh, no_.

  


Daphne’s hand dove into her pocket before stabbing her wand into Malfoy’s hand on her arm. With the sound of a whip crack and a yelp of pain, Malfoy snatched his already reddening hand back to his chest as he stumbled back. However, he froze at the sight of Daphne’s wand pointed between his eyes.

  


“Let me make something very clear,” Daphne bit out in a voice that literally made Blaise shiver. “I don’t need _anyone_ to fight my battles for me. I am more than capable of fighting them myself … just as I am capable of dealing with my own nuisances.” Her expression made it excruciatingly clear which of the two she considered dealing with Malfoy to be. “ _I_ am not someone who has to run to her father over every little issue life ever throws at her.”

  


Malfoy looked like he was going to retort, but Daphne moved her now glowing wand tip closer, and he remained quiet. “That is what you were about say, wasn’t it? That your father will hear about this? Well, by all means, tell him.”

  


For once, Blaise was in concert with Malfoy, as both of their eyebrows disappeared into their hairlines at that statement.

  


“Please, tell him,” Daphne continued, now with her own sneer breaking up the frozen planes of her face. “Tell him that his precious heir can’t get a girl on his own, so he needs daddy to come make it right for him. Tell him that he needs daddy to hold his hand and cut his food, while you’re at it. And definitely be sure to tell him how he needs daddy to protect him, because the mean girl hurt his friends, and now he’s scared of her.”

  


The pale and sweating boy looked confused at that. “What are you talking about? You haven’t hurt anybody.”

  


Turning, Daphne fired two bolts of light at the crotches of the bodyguards, who had been quietly moving in to protect Malfoy. With strangled yelps, both goliaths fell to their knees before they collapsed face first to the ground cradling themselves and whimpering.

  


Daphne pointed her wand back at the bug-eyed Malfoy, who was now darting panicked glances between the groaning boys, her glowing wand tip, and her cold, furious eyes. He slowly raised his slightly trembling hands in surrender.

  


“Now, if you don’t mind, I will be heading down to breakfast with my friends,” Daphne informed him crisply. “I suggest you help your own.” With a final flare of light and one last flinch from Malfoy, she returned her wand to her pocket and began smoothly striding away once more.

  


Shocked, Blaise numbly followed. Tracey, meanwhile, decided to give her own two cents as she stepped up and kicked Malfoy hard in the shin, forcing the stunned boy to loudly yelp and begin hopping on one foot. She immediately scampered after her friends.

  


They quietly flanked Daphne as they walked down hallways and climbed up stairways. Daphne’s face was as imperturbable as ever, but Blaise noticed her clasped hands were spasming slightly.

  


“Oh god,” she finally whispered. “What have I done?”

  


“Something AWESOME!” Tracey exclaimed excitedly, confused as to how this was even a question.

  


“Something inevitable,” Blaise interpreted. Daphne turned to look at her in confusion. “Let’s face it: He was never going to back down from just a few polite brush offs, or even some exceedingly beautiful insults, if I do say so myself. He was going to keep pushing and pushing until he got what he wanted or until you forced him to back off.” She shrugged. “As far as I see it, there was really only one choice here.”

  


“But it’s not that simple, Blaise!” Daphne vented, near the point of pulling out her own hair in stress. “I’m going to pay for that! There’s no way he’ll keep this to himself!”

  


“Maybe,” Blaise replied. “I wouldn’t be too sure, though. Like you said, that would require him running to his daddy and telling him that the big bad girl hurt his friends, and now he’s scared of her. Frankly, I doubt he has the guts to tell anyone about this.”

  


“But what if he does?” Daphne asked, almost frantic.

  


“Then you’ll kick his butt again!” Tracey decided, forcing a stress-filled snort to escape the blonde.

  


“If he does, then we’ll deal with it,” a gently smiling Blaise assured her, never even considering the idea of letting Daphne face those repercussions alone. “And sure, maybe you’ll pay for that, but aren’t some things are worth paying for?” She pointed back the way they came. “That? That was amazing. If that isn’t worth paying for, then I’m not sure what is, short of actually hexing Malfoy to a pulp.”

  


“And there’s always next time for that!” Tracey declared. The other two burst into quiet laughter at that.

  


After thinking for a moment, Daphne sighed. “I suppose you’re right. This was inevitable. If we’re lucky, he’ll take the hint and stop bothering us, and he’ll keep quiet about today. If not … well, I’ll just have to deal with it then.”

  


“ _We’ll_ deal with it then,” Blaise corrected.

  


“Yeah!” Tracey agreed, wrapping herself tightly around Daphne’s arm.

  


Even her best attempts at maintaining her cool facade failed in the face of her friend’s words. “Thank you,” she said warmly, squeezing Tracey’s arm and wrapping an arm around Blaise to draw her into a group hug.

  


“Yes, well, now that the warm and fuzzies are done, do you mind telling us just how exactly you managed to hex those two trolls?” Blaise demanded.

  


“Yeah!” Tracey chimed in. “You didn’t even say anything! No incantations or nothin’! You were just like, ‘Grrr,’ all quiet and scary like, and then they were all like, ‘Gaaah!’ Then Malfoy was like, ‘Waaaah!’”

  


There was a moment of silence following the girl’s dramatic reenactment of the event.

  


“What she said,” Blaise agreed.

  


Daphne chuckled. “What, did you think father would allow his legacy to walk around without making sure it could protect itself? He spent weeks drilling that spell into me, hexing me if I got it wrong, attacking me at all hours of the day, forcing me to cast it over and over and over again until it was absolutely perfect. Anyone could manage to cast a spell silently after all that.”

  


“Well, I hope we get to see you do that again!” Tracey exclaimed.

  


“And I hope we do not,” Daphne replied, to Tracey’s visible disappointment.

  


Blaise grinned as they stepped into the Great Hall. “Yeah, hold on to that thought, Daphne.”

  


Curious, Daphne looked at her questioningly. Blaise nodded towards a spot near the end of a certain table.

  


Turning, Daphne spotted what she was looking at and immediately understood her comment. Sitting at the end of the Ravenclaw table, with a vast empty stretch of table between him and the rest of his housemates, was … whatever his name was.

  


“Geez! What happened to his face?” Tracey asked.

  


It wasn’t that difficult to tell what she was talking about. From there, it almost looked like he was wearing a bandit mask, the circles under his eyes were so dark. If she had to guess, she’d say he hadn’t had any sleep in over a week, but he didn’t look anything like that yesterday.

  


“Clearly someone had a rough night,” Blaise observed.

  


“Good,” Daphne declared viciously. “No doubt he spent all night lying awake dreading this very moment.”

  


“Obviously,” Blaise agreed dryly, as if that was the only possible explanation.

  


“Well, I’d hate to keep him in suspense any longer,” Daphne mercifully decided, already striding towards her latest victim. _For god’s sake, man, cover your crotch!_ Blaise mentally warned him as she flashed back to the whimpering bookends probably still huddled on the floor.

  


She and Tracey both followed the steaming girl as she stalked over to the Ravenclaw table, eventually stopping just opposite the boy in question.

  


Focused on his food, he didn’t notice them any more than he appeared to notice the whispering and constant glances his classmates were shooting their new resident celebrity.

  


Finally, however, his gaze lifted to spot the blonde standing there glaring at him with her arms crossed, while Tracey and Blaise mostly just looked on in eager anticipation of the show to come. Blaise noted that despite the dark circles under his eyes, his gaze was still as clear as ever, even if it seemed a bit distracted.

  


“Explain,” Daphne ordered, not wasting time on formalities.

  


_Well, that’s not a very proper greeting, now is it,_ Blaise observed in ironic amusement, given Daphne’s usual obsession with these things. She wasn’t stupid enough to say anything like that out loud, though.

  


The boy with too many names raised an eyebrow at her. “Explain?”

  


“Explain!” Daphne repeated, still glaring at him as if trying to wandlessly set him on fire.

  


“Um …” He glanced down at the food in between them. He looked back at them with a mischievous smile. “Okay.”

  


_Oh no_.

  


“Well …”

  


_Don’t do it._

  


“You see …”

  


_Don’t do it!_

  


“This is what is called ‘breakfast’ …”

  


_Oh my god._

  


“This is the first meal of the day. Now, there are certain items that are considered acceptable as breakfast foods, while there are certain others that are not. This distinction is completely arbitrary, but people will still defend it practically to the death. For instance, toast? An acceptable breakfast food. A burger? Not an acceptable breakfast food. With me so far?”

  


With bulging eyes, Blaise and Tracey both slowly turned to Daphne. The girl’s jaw had dropped in utter shock at the boy’s flippant response, but her flabbergasted astonishment lasted only so long. Blaise watched as her right eye began spasming wildly. Knowing that was a sign of imminent violence, Blaise threw herself at Daphne’s wand arm just as it tried once more to dive for her wand.

  


A brief vertical wrestling match ensued, which Tracey joined in on from the other side as they tried to stop Daphne from hexing the celebrity in front of half the school. Meanwhile, the smug little bastard simply sat there calmly drinking tea.

  


“Witnesses, Daphne! Witnesses!” Blaise tried to get through to her taller friend, who was surprisingly tenacious in her struggle to reach her wand. With one final attempt to jerk her arm free, Daphne finally seemed to listen.

  


“Alright, I’m fine. I’m okay,” she gently assured them both. After watching her closely for a moment, she and Tracey slowly released her arms. Daphne delicately shook out her sleeves and brushed her robes smooth.

  


Then she lunged for her wand once more.

  


“Daphne!” Blaise scolded as she desperately clung to the girl’s arm yet again.

  


“Fine!” Daphne snapped, pulling her arm free. “But the moment I catch him alone, he’s dead!”

  


“That works,” Blaise agreed.

  


Daphne finally turned back to the subject of their little debate, only to find that he had returned to his breakfast.

  


Blaise thought she’d have to tackle her friend once more, but Daphne simply closed her eyes and focused on taking a few deep breaths to calm herself.

  


“Seriously, how can you be eating right now?” Tracey demanded for all of them while walking over to his side of the table. “I mean, after all the food from last night, don’t you still feel absolutely stuffed?” Well, her reasoning for the question may have differed a bit from theirs.

  


Tracey reached out and snagged a piece of bacon from his plate. “I mean, I seriously feel like I could burst,” she explained in between bites. “I can’t even look at food right now.” Sitting down beside him, she began helping herself to the food on his plate. Rolling his eyes, he moved his plate a bit closer to her.

  


“Alright, starting over,” Daphne began. “Why didn’t you tell us you were Harry Potter?”

  


“I forgot,” he said simply.

  


Even Tracey stopped eating to stare at him.

  


“I– … you– … what?” a baffled Daphne articulated.

  


“What, you’ve never forgotten something?” he asked defensively.

  


Daphne’s eyes bulged while Blaise simply moved her head back and forth as if watching tennis.

  


“Yes, I have!” Daphne finally got out. “I’ve forgotten where I placed my favorite book. I’ve forgotten what year Hogwarts was founded. I’ve never forgotten my _name_!”

  


“Well, it must be nice to be perfect,” he snootily complained.

  


Blaise couldn’t help but giggle at Daphne’s confused and outraged face. Taking a deep breath, though, she seemed to center herself.

  


“No one,” she hissed, sure he was lying just to aggravate her, “could simply forget that they were _Harry freaking Potter_!”

  


The forenamed Harry freaking Potter looked like he was going to make another flippant retort, but then he looked confused. “Wait a minute, you’re saying that name like it has some special significance. Am I missing something?”

  


Daphne’s mouth opened and closed silently, unable to process the question.

  


Blaise was equally stunned and confused, but she was at least functional, so she took over.

  


“What?!”

  


Well, maybe she wasn’t as functional as she thought.

  


Tracey decided to join in. “Haaarrryyy Pooottteeerrr,” she slowly enunciated, sure that would clear things up.

  


It did not.

  


“Yeeeees?” he asked promptingly.

  


“ _Haaarrryyy Pooottteeerrr_!” she repeated more loudly.

  


He turned to Blaise and Daphne. “Can someone translate?”

  


Daphne finally regained her powers of speech. “You … can’t be serious … can you?”

  


“It’s been known to happen on occasion,” he replied. “For instance, right now. Very seriously confused, here.”

  


Daphne stared at him silently for several moments before shakily falling into a seat on the bench across from him, as if her shock had turned her legs to jelly. She turned to Blaise. “He really doesn’t know.”

  


Blaise speechlessly joined her on the bench.

  


“You know, you lot are free to start making sense any time, now,” the confused boy informed them. “Seriously, I won’t hold it against you.”

  


“But … how can you not know?” Daphne asked, still trying to make sense of this.

  


Now getting slightly irritated at being left in the dark about whatever they were all talking about, he spoke up. “Maybe it would help if I explained my situation. If you’ll remember, I mentioned that I was from China. Well, I was raised there under the name ‘Shen.’ The first time I came across the name ‘Harry Potter’ was in the Hogwarts invitation letter. I know absolutely nothing about the name other than the fact that it is supposedly the one I was born with. End of list.”

  


“Oh,” Daphne said simply, unsure how else to respond, or how at all to explain. “Well … your name is … fairly well known here. In fact, I doubt you’d meet anyone in the wizarding world who hadn’t heard it at least once, unless maybe they were muggleborn.”

  


“Really?” he asked in surprise. “Why?”

  


Once again, Daphne stalled, unsure how to begin explaining. Blaise tagged in instead. “When you were born,” she explained, “the wizarding world was being terrorized by the most powerful dark wizard our world has ever known. He gathered followers and laid siege to our entire country, slaughtering families, assassinating leaders, even just going on rampage and destroying everything around them, both in our world and in the muggle one. No-one could stop him or his followers, and everyone who tried ended up dead. If they were lucky.”

  


Daphne took up the explanation once more. “But that all changed on Halloween night, 1981. No-one knows why, but that night, he targeted your family specifically. They supposedly knew he had been hunting them, and so they were deep in hiding, but that didn’t stop him. It never did. He … killed your parents.” She paused, knowing this was bound to be a sensitive subject. However, he simply looked at her with an utterly inscrutable look on his face, waiting for her to continue. “But then he tried to kill you, and … failed.”

  


He raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”

  


Daphne shrugged. “No-one knows. All we really know is what Professor Dumbledore told everyone. He was apparently the one to fish you out of the wreckage of your family’s home, and he was the one who told the world that You-Know-Who had tried to kill you, and failed. Somehow, you survived the Dark Lord’s curse when no-one else ever had, and in so doing, You-Know-Who was destroyed. He never explained how or why.”

  


“According to Dumbledore,” Blaise chimed in, “the attack left a scar on your chest, while it left nothing but tattered robes and a pile of rubble where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was.”

  


With a mile-long empty stare, he gently pressed a hand to the strange scar he had always carried on his chest, never knowing where it had come from.

  


“So you do have the scar,” Tracey noted, spotting the motion. “Can we see it?”

  


“Tracey!” Daphne scolded her for the insensitivity of the question.

  


“What? Like you _don’t_ want to see it?” she demanded.

  


“Are you asking me to take my shirt off, Tracey?” he asked with a faint wry smile.

  


Tracey blushed and stammered. “Well, you could just, I don’t know, pull it down a bit to give me a peek,” she compromised.

  


“Tracey, just … stop,” Daphne tiredly told her while Blaise snickered.

  


“Can I ask a question, now?” he asked.

  


Confused, Daphne nodded.

  


“What’s with all this ‘You-Know-Who’ and ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’ business?”

  


“We don’t speak his name,” Blaise hastily answered while Tracey nodded emphatically.

  


“Why?” he asked, utterly confused.

  


“We just … don’t,” Blaise explained, again with Tracey nodding emphatically.

  


“So … no reason, then?” he interpreted.

  


Blaise gave him an indignant look, but also couldn’t quite find a response.

  


“Actually, there is a reason,” Daphne explained.

  


“Aha!” she triumphantly exclaimed. “Tell him, Daphne!”

  


“Yeah!” Tracey agreed, returning to his food.

  


Daphne shook her head at her friend’s antics, but continued. “During the war, the Dark Lord cast a taboo on his name. Whenever people said it, he would know. Sometimes, he did nothing. Other times, he sent his Death Eaters to slaughter the speaker, and maybe their entire family as well. On supremely unlucky occasion, he would even take a more personal interest and take action himself. Needless to say, people soon learned never to even whisper his name, lest they potentially pay a terrible price.”

  


“Wait a minute, he was able to curse his name so he could hear it being said, know where it was being said, and then travel there?” he asked. “You guys have some crazy weird magic.”

  


Daphne made distinct note of his phrasing, and its implications, but didn’t argue the point.

  


“So, what’s his name?” he asked.

  


Blaise drew a rapid hiss of breath at the question, while Tracey choked on a piece of toast.

  


Daphne took a deep breath. “Lord Voldemort.”

  


Tracey squealed and Blaise jumped half a foot in her chair at hearing the name, and at the deeply ingrained panicked instincts it triggered.

  


Before anyone could say anything, however, their little meeting was intruded upon.

  


“Good morning!” Professor Flitwick cheerfully greeted them. “I must say, I applaud you for being willing to sit at a house table other than your own,” he applauded them, as he noticed the green ties and Slytherin badges on the girls’ uniforms. “Too many seem to treat the house tables like armed war camps. It is rather depressing.” His face spoke of utter heartbreak at the thought.

  


“However,” he continued, “you may wish to return to your own table for now. The heads of houses are going to be handing out schedules.” He lifted the stack of papers in his arms to emphasize this. “And, unfortunately, I’m afraid some of my colleagues might be … less than amenable to visiting another house table to deliver them.”

  


Daphne nodded, rising to her feet and gesturing to the others to do so as well.

  


“Do I have to?” Tracey whined, still eating off the boy’s plate.

  


“Yes, Tracey,” Daphne told her.

  


Tracey sighed and grabbed the rest of his bacon as she rose to her feet.

  


Professor Flitwick chuckled at the boy’s expression at that. “Please, feel free to return to the Ravenclaw table for other meals if you wish,” he invited them. “It would be nice to see the houses interact with each other a bit more. Well, beyond insults and glares, that is.”

  


“Thank you, Professor Flitwick,” Daphne told him as she gave the still confused and thoughtful boy one last look before heading for the next table. Tracey waved at him sadly with her bacon-filled hand.

  


“See you later, Harry,” Blaise said as she followed her friends.

  


“Bye,” he called after them.

  


Professor Flitwick smiled, happy to see one of his ravens making friends outside of his house. However, his expression changed rather dramatically at the sight of the boy’s exhaustion-bruised eyes.

  


“Merlin’s beard, boy! Didn’t you sleep at all last night?” he asked in concern.

  


The boy gave a pained, wry smile at the question. “Sleeping last night was … a bit of a trial, you could say.”

  


“Apparently,” the diminutive professor observed. “Well, I hope that this won’t impede your performance in classes today! I must say, I have rather high hopes for you in charms. Your mother was one of my absolute favorite students, and she had a remarkable grasp of the field.”

  


“Really?” he asked in interest. “Well, I hope to see if I inherited that talent.”

  


“As do I,” Flitwick agreed with a smile. “Now, here’s your schedule,” he continued, handing over a marked sheet of parchment, “and I’ll see you after breakfast!”

  


“Till then, professor,” he answered distractedly, already gazing over his schedule as Flitwick moved down the table.

  


Apparently, Professor Flitwick’s comment about seeing him after breakfast had some weight to it. His first class was Charms with the Gryffindors. After that was Defense against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins, meaning he’d be sharing it with the girls, which should be fun, assuming he remained in the presence of witnesses the entire time in order to deter Daphne. Then it was lunch and Transfiguration with the Gryffindors again.

  


_Sweet_ , he thought. _The classes I was most excited about all on one day. Nice_. He flexed his arm to feel his wand in its sheath. _Now I just need to figure out how to use this over-sized toothpick._

  


Of course, that was rapidly taking a backseat to a more pressing concern.

  


Figuring out exactly who had been messing with his head last night.

  


He drew more deeply on his power as he thought about that, feeling his power help to rejuvenate his body and curb some of the physical symptoms of his exhaustion.

  


He knew his dreams. He knew his mind. His extensive training with Manisha had made very certain of that. Because of it, he was utterly certain that whatever the hell that dream was last night, it was anything but natural. Which meant that someone—or something—had caused it.

  


At first, he had suspected Manisha, but the more he thought about it, the less it fit. The Grandmaster of the Mind was undeniably powerful in the mind arts, but even she would have had to at least be in the building to send a dream like that, and somehow, he couldn’t really picture her hiding out in a Hogwarts broom cupboard to mess with his dreams. Plus, while her training was often harsh, it was never anything near the level of … last night.

  


He shivered at the memory.

  


As far as he could tell, that left him with two options. The first, and the one he desperately hoped was true, was that the dream was simply some strange part of his trial they hadn’t told him about.

  


The second was that someone he didn’t know was messing with his mind for some unknown purpose.

  


Needless to say, the second possibility highly disturbed him.

  


_Alright, let’s see where my list is at now … 1) figure out how to make wand-magic work; 2) see if I can’t unlock the secret to visually perceiving magic again, as that should help with the first; 3) find a place to train; 4) get answers to who or what is messing with my head; 5) figure out how to prevent this in the future and/or kick their ass; 6) pass my classes; and 7) try to maintain my sanity in the process_.

  


He blinked as he though through his expanded list.

  


_I’m gonna need more bacon for this_ , he decided, refilling his plate with the ambrosia.

  


Eventually sated and feeling much better, he grabbed his stuff and began heading for his first class, eager to finally get started.

  


As he left, he turned and waved at the girls at the Slytherin table. Blaise was busy fending off Tracey’s attempts to mooch off of her plate, and so didn’t see him, but Tracey did, who was apparently so experienced in food stealing that she could split her focus with no trouble. She waved back exuberantly, and while Blaise turned to see what she was waving at, she stole the girl’s toast.

  


Daphne simply gave him a cool nod, maintaining her poise in front of her fellow Slytherins.

  


Upon leaving the Great Hall, he was treated to a rousing game of Find that Classroom! Unfortunately, the entire castle seemed to be his opponent, and it apparently had absolutely no qualms about cheating, with trick staircases that turned to slides if you hit the wrong step to doors were apparently working on their wall impersonations, and rather effectively at that. At one point, he could have sworn that walking through one door had suddenly placed him several floors up from where he had been. He even started wondering if he should have packed trail rations or something.

  


Eventually, however, he found himself entering a large classroom with ascending levels of seats spread out in a semi-circle around the teacher’s desk, beside which was a teetering stack of textbooks set on the floor, for some reason. To his surprise, the room was already filled with several students who either must have been part bloodhound or had started trekking to the room sometime last night to already be there. One of them, he noted, was even the bushy-haired girl, who he was starting to suspect was haunting him or something, given how he kept seeing her everywhere.

  


Shrugging off the possible phantasmal classmate, he took a seat on the opposite side of the horseshoe-shaped classroom.

  


Idly, he spent the next few minutes watching students stumble through the door to the room, each of whom looked like they had hiked through surprisingly hostile terrain to get there. Every one of them seemed _very_ appreciative of the seats after all the labyrinthine stairs and corridors.

  


Eventually, the classroom filled, and the tiny professor finally stepped through a door at the back of the room.

  


“Good morning, everyone!” he greeted them all happily.

  


“Good morning, Professor Flitwick,” the class chanted back at him out of student impulse.

  


The mystery of the stack of books was soon solved, as the vertically challenged professor clamored atop them so he could be easily seen by everyone.

  


“First off, I would like to say to all of you, welcome!” the professor’s smile could practically light the room. “As you seem to know already, my name is Professor Flitwick, and I am the charms master here at Hogwarts. Now, before we begin, I wonder if anyone can tell me the definition of charms magic?”

  


The diminutive teacher’s question was barely finished before the bushy-haired girl’s hand shot up eagerly.

  


“Charms magic imbues an object or creature with properties that it does not otherwise possess,” she proudly recited. “It differs from transfiguration in that charms add qualities to an object that change what it does, as opposed to transfiguration, which fundamentally changes the object itself.”

  


“Well said!” Professor Flitwick exclaimed. “Five points to Gryffindor!”

  


The girl’s pleased smile actually seemed to outshine the cheerful professor’s grin at those words.

  


“Yes, charms magic typically focuses on altering the function of its subject or adding qualities to it rather than changing its actual form or structure,” the professor explained. “The effects are also typically less permanent than transfiguration. For example, an object that is made to float by means of a charm will float only as long as the spell is maintained, whereas an object that is, say, given wings by means of transfiguration will typically retain those wings until a counter-spell is cast.”

  


All of the students seemed to grow excited at the talk of actual spells, and he was no exception, rapidly twirling his wand through his fingers in anticipation.

  


Reading his class’s reaction, the professor chortled. “Well, I see I have your attention. Perhaps we should start talking about the spells we will be learning now, eh?”

  


He thought some of his classmates would sprain their necks they were nodding so enthusiastically.

  


Drawing his own wand, the professor continued his lecture. “The first charm we will be discussing is a rather simple spell, but eminently useful. The light charm. Incantation: _lumos_. Observe.” With a clearly enunciated “ _lumos_ ” and a short jabbing motion, his wand was illuminated with a soft blue-white light at the end.

  


“ _Nox_.” With a flick, the light ended.

  


“One of the few charms to utilize both an activation and a cessation spell, the _lumos_ charm is one nearly every witch or wizard will need at some point. As you may have noticed, the wand movement for its activation is a short, jabbing motion with your wand, like so.” He carefully duplicated the motion. “And to end it, a flick.” He replicated that motion as well.

  


Seeing his opening, he raised his hand with a question.

  


“Yes, Mr. Potter?” the professor called on him.

  


“Professor, I was hoping you could explain exactly how and why wand movements and incantations affect spells,” he explained. “Each of the textbooks I read through mentioned repeatedly that it was crucial that these be enacted perfectly to get the spells to work, but none of them mentioned why they were important, nor exactly how certain movements or sounds lead to spells in the first place.”

  


“My, that is a rather insightful question,” the high-pitched professor complimented happily. “It’s a bit deeper on the theory side of things, but I suppose it would help you all to understand exactly how spells work.” Some of his classmates, mostly those in blue and bronze, seemed to agree, while a number of others, mostly in red and gold, seemed a bit irritated that this was keeping them from getting to the part where they actually started casting spells, but he didn’t really care. He needed to know this.

  


“Hmm. Where exactly to begin?” the professor mused aloud, having been slightly derailed from what was probably a very well practiced discussion about charms.

  


“How about with how the magic from someone’s core is shaped by the incantation,” he suggested, zeroing in on the part that he couldn’t figure out.

  


The professor seemed very surprised by the question. “My word, Mr. Potter. Now that is definitely reaching into more advanced theory. You must have been reading a bit more than just the textbooks.”

  


The bushy-haired girl raised her hand with a confused look on her face. “Professor, what does he mean by our ‘core’?”

  


The professor smiled. “Well, I guess we’ll be starting at the very beginning of the spell process,” he answered his own earlier question before turning back to the girl. “Allow me to answer your question with another question. Where does magic come from? When we cast a spell, where does that power originate?”

  


The girl seemed to give it some thought, but couldn’t answer.

  


Another student tried to, though. “Our wands?” the South Indian Ravenclaw girl he sat across from at the feast suggested.

  


“Good guess,” the professor complimented. “But incorrect. The answer is that the magic comes from inside you. In every magical person is a magical core. You can think of this much like a well, with magic as the water. When you cast a spell, the power of the spell is drawn from your core much like water is pulled from a well.”

  


“Does that mean the figurative well could run dry?” the bushy-haired girl asked in some concern.

  


“Yes and no,” the professor explained. “If too much magic is used too quickly, or if too much water is drained, so to speak, the well will run dry, yes. However, while this isn’t exactly healthy, it isn’t typically fatal, either, nor is it permanent. You could say that the well is constantly being filled from some deeper ocean of water far underground, even if we can only ever actually access that which is in our well. So you won’t lose the ability to cast magic forever if you drain your core, but you will likely feel rather terrible, and it will take time to build up your reserves once more.”

  


A number of students seemed rather relieved at those words.

  


“But we are getting a bit off track,” the professor continued. “The magical energy that one uses to cast spells comes from their magical core deep inside them. However, a witch or wizard can’t simply reach into their core and wield the raw magical energy contained therein.”

  


A certain green-eyed boy suddenly found it rather difficult to keep a straight face.

  


“Instead,” the professor lectured, “one needs tools to properly draw and shape magic into the refined, controllable spells we use. This is why accidental magic is so chaotic. Without these tools, our magic can’t be properly shaped into consistent and predictable effects very well. Hence, wands and incantations.”

  


“But how exactly do wands and incantations draw and shape magic?” he asked in interest, finally narrowing down where his issues lay with this style of magic.

  


“Good question,” the professor responded. “Using the well analogy, the wand can be considered something like the bucket that is used to pull the water out of the well, though it functions as a bit more than that. While the wand does draw magical energy from a person’s core, it also works in tandem with the incantation to shape the energy into the desired spell, typically through the specific motions that the spell was designed to use. This is what makes the _lumos_ spell, for instance, consistently produce light instead of simply expelling a wild outburst of magical energy. As for the exact mechanics of just how incantations shape magic, well that involves a much longer discussion involving the first cultures to use refined spells, and the long-lasting impression their language has had on magic ever since, especially magic that is used in a manner similar to their own. Does that answer your question?”

  


He nodded slowly, his thoughts whirring. “Does that mean that the incantations and specific wand movements are always necessary to perform wand-based spells?”

  


The short professor smiled deeply. “Another good question! In fact, the answer is no. The incantations and wand movements are extremely helpful tools for causing spells to function very consistently and with minimal conscious control over the spell required, or relatively so at least. This makes them essential for those just beginning to use magic, or those unfamiliar with the spell being cast. Those more experienced with magic or more practiced with the spell in question can more easily cast without verbal incantations or specific wand movements. This is not only useful for things like dueling, as it keeps the spell you are casting a mystery to your opponent, but silent casting also affords more personal flexibility with spells.”

  


His interest perked at that. “How so, professor?”

  


“As I mentioned, incantations and wand movements help to shape magic into pre-defined and predictable spell effects. However, this also gives the spell a certain rigidity. The spell cannot be changed or adjusted much with incantations involved, because it is bound by the parameters of that incantation. By contrast, when a spell is cast without incantations, it requires far more conscious focus and general mastery over magic to shape the magic into a spell, but one can also modify the spell to a much greater extent, since it is less firmly defined.”

  


The professor’s kindly face took on a slightly wicked glint. “For instance …” He cleared his throat. “ _Ignis Flagrum_!” he cried out with a flourish.

  


His jaw dropped and several students yelped in fright as a long whip made of raging red-gold fire was expelled from the man’s wand, hissing and roaring as it sliced through the air before giving a loud snap as the professor cracked it and allowed it to disperse.

  


His eyes had dark trails running across them from the light of the whip, but he still stared unblinking at the scorched stone where the whip had dragged before being dismissed.

  


Everyone stared in shocked silence as the professor raised his wand again. “That was with the incantation. Now, without.”

  


With a silent flourish, he brandished his wand again, only this time, five whips made of roiling fire trailed from his wand instead of only one. The whips snaked through the air as he spun and flourished his wand, each seeming almost alive as they coiled and reached out in a way that no simple cord would have managed, and they roared like wildfire as they danced through the air in a mesmerizing yet deadly ballet. With a final flourish, the professor cracked the whip once more, and the ensuing chorus of loud snaps from the whips made everyone’s ears ring as they dispersed.

  


Silence followed this performance as well, but only briefly. All around him, his classmates burst into cheers as they clapped and whistled at the show, and the beaming professor took a proud bow from his tower of books. As the professor straightened, he could have sworn he hear him smugly whisper, “Top _that_ display, Minerva!”

  


As the class settled down once more, the professor began again once more. “Now, getting back to the _lumos_ charm, the spell was designed by …”

  


At that point, he tuned out the professor’s lecture, instead drawing and staring at his wand. _So is that what my problem’s been?_ When he tried casting spells with the wand, he had been channeling his power into the wand himself. After all, since the magic he learned at the monastery required him to summon, shape, and direct his internal magic himself, he assumed that was simply how magic everywhere was cast. However, according to the professor, the wand was supposed to draw magic from his core on its own … somehow.

  


Suddenly hearing a discordant musical chorus, he looked up to see that all of his classmates were currently trying to perform the _lumos_ spell, with some … interesting degrees of success. The frizzy-haired girl seemed to manage the charm almost perfectly on her second try, once again beaming with delighted pride as her wand lit up with a soft blue-white glow. By contrast, a redheaded boy in faded Gryffindor robes seemed to be prepping for a particularly violent murder with the way he was aggressively stabbing his wand forward and snarling the incantation, resulting in little more than flickering sparks of light from his wand.

  


Of course, he was put to shame by another boy on his side of the room, who somehow managed to detonate the parchment in front of him with a massive bang and a cloud of smoke, to much shock and hilarity from his classmates.

  


Turning back to his own wand, he began his own attempts at the charm. “ _Lumos_.”

  


Nothing.

  


Frowning, he focused on his internal magic. He resisted the urge to manually push his magic into the wand, instead simply observing the currents of his magic as he tried again to cast the spell.

  


“ _Lumos._ ”

  


Still nothing. His magic didn’t react at all, and he felt no attempt from his wand to connect to anything. It may as well have been just a stick of wood as far as his magic was concerned.

  


His brow furrowed in concentration and annoyance. This time, he focused on the spell effects he was trying to make happen, on the soft blue-white light that he saw the other wands produce, concentrating on his desire to make his own wand light up similarly.

  


Faintly, he felt a faint lurch from the wand, and he distantly heard a faint echo to the chorus of his own magic. Gently, he tried reaching out to the wand, trying to strengthen that connection, but the more he tried, the fainter it became.

  


“Remember,” the professor’s voice intruded jarringly, “be sure to clearly enunciate!”

  


Closing his eyes, he focused on allowing his physical awareness to drop away, letting the sounds from the classroom pass into and through him without holding on to them, letting go of the sensation of the robes on his skin or the chair he was sitting in. He took one deep breath in, and then let it out, allowing his breaths to fill his mind rather than just his lungs as he slipped deeper and deeper into a meditative trance, releasing all earthly distractions and truly opening himself up to his magic, and his inner self.

  


His magic stilled and quieted, ceasing its endless flickering and dancing as it surrendered more and more to his direct conscious control. Turning his inner eye, he gazed upon the latent magical presence of his wand. It was painfully distant and almost imperceptibly faint, but it was there.

  


Rather than reach for it, he focused on shaping his magic, making it sing the tune he heard from the professor when he cast the charm, but without trying to connect with the wand at all.

  


Sure enough, he heard a resonance from the wand that slowly grew stronger and stronger. However, the wand’s melody differed from that of the charm. In fact, it sounded vaguely like the song his own magic usually sang. Curious, he let the charm’s tune fade away. Instead, he focused on strengthening his magic’s natural melody, feeling it echo in his soul as it swelled and grew.

  


The wand’s song grew as well, joining with the tune of his magic in a hauntingly beautiful duet. To him, it sounded like hope itself given form in music, and his heart swelled at the sound as he surrendered to the song completely. He released the lingering anger and the fear he felt from the dregs of last night’s dream. He let go of his plans and his ambitions, and his obsession with improving himself. Just for that moment, he surrendered himself entirely, and he floated on the song like a feather on a warm, still pond.

  


He barely even noticed the wand’s magic joining with his own at last.

  


“My word!” a part of him distantly registered hearing. As if waking from dream, he drifted out of the currents of his magic and slowly pulled himself free of its song. Its melody slowly quieted to a background hum as he started paying attention once more to the physical world.

  


As he opened his eyes, they were immediately filled with a soft yet brilliant golden light spilling free from his wand so heavily that he could see nothing else, though he could certainly hear it, as several of his classmates complained about what to them was a painfully bright light.

  


He blinked his eyes a few times to clear his head, not realizing how the fitful green glow of his irises faded away as his mind focused fully on the mundane world.

  


“Oh, uh, sorry guys!” he called out to his irritated and half-blinded classmates. With a gentle flick, the light pouring out of his wand faded away, leaving his classmates to blink away spots in their vision while he smiled at his wand in a mix of embarrassment and pure triumphant glee.

  


“Do you mind?” the frizzy-haired girl snapped irritably as she rubbed her watering eyes. “There are other people in this classroom!”

  


“There are?” he asked blithely. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Here I thought I was practicing magic all by myself in here.”

  


She gave him a baleful, red-eyed glare.

  


“Hey, at least I’m not turning my desk into a munitions depot,” he argued, gesturing to the apparently explosive-prone Gryffindor boy, whose desk looked like a miniature war zone littered with ash and tiny craters.

  


“Hey,” the soot-stained boy complained halfheartedly.

  


“Enough,” Professor Flitwick interrupted. “Now, Mr. Potter, that was … rather much, I must say. I would recommend trying to decrease the power you are putting into the charm just a tad. After all, creating a light when you need it is one thing. Creating a miniature sun is quite another.”

  


“Fair point,” he acceded.

  


“As for you, Mr. Finnigan,” the professor continued, turning to the new resident bombardier, “maybe try to be a bit less … _energetic_ in your casting?”

  


“I’ll try, professor,” he agreed.

  


“Excellent!” the professor responded cheerfully. “As for everyone else, great work, and that’s all for today! Good luck with your next classes, and I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

  


With that, everyone began gathering their things to begin another trek through the castle, though little Ms. Frizzle paused to shoot him one more glare before joining them.

  


He didn’t really pay attention, though. He was too busy engaging in a massive happy dance in his head. He had finally got it to work! He could feel the connection running from the wand to his core as it waited almost eagerly for him to start casting more spells.

  


With that in mind, he scrambled to join his fellow Ravenclaws as they headed downstairs towards their next class: Defense against the Dark Arts. Luckily, one of them apparently had a reasonable idea of where they were going, as they actually made it to the classroom with only three dead-end turns and one missing staircase (which had apparently decided that some other corridor was lovely that time of day).

  


“Hi Harry!”

  


Scanning through the sea of green and silver robes outside the classroom door, he spotted Tracey waving at him enthusiastically. Meanwhile, a decidedly expressionless Daphne tried to surreptitiously force her hand down while subtly glancing at her fellow Slytherins, several of whom were eyeing the enthusiastic Tracey with much the same air of plotting and measuring that Daphne often wore.

  


Blaise, as always, seemed rather content to stand back and watch the girl’s vain efforts at controlling their untamable friend.

  


“Miss Davis,” he responded in a snooty, overly formal tone that was certainly not a mockery of Daphne’s. Not at all.

  


The paranoid Daphne seemed to disagree, though, given the glare she shot him.

  


_Ah, witnesses. They are truly wonderful things_ , he mentally praised as he watched her hand drift towards her pocket before stalling.

  


“Blaise,” he greeted their audience with a grin.

  


“’Sup,” she drawled, earning an outraged look from Miss Propriety and a snicker from him and Tracey.

  


Hearing a popping sound, he turned to look at the other end of the crowd of Slytherin students waiting for the classroom door to be unlocked. There, he spotted one of the two pet ogres cracking their knuckles as they and their blonde-haired centerpiece glared at him and the girls. But, they seemed to be keeping their distance, so he didn’t really mind. They were free to glare away.

  


However, just as he dismissed them and turned back to the girls, the corridor echoed with a faint click from the door as it unlocked.

  


“Ooh, class is starting,” he remarked in excitement, having looked forward to this class above all others.

  


“You see, that right there is exactly why you got sorted into Ravenclaw,” Blaise remarked. “No proper Slytherin would _ever_ express that much excitement for a class.”

  


“Indeed,” Daphne agreed.

  


He was aghast. “But … but we’re going to learn _magic_! Combat magic!” He turned to the redhead. “Trace, you’re with me on this, right? Learning magic is awesome?”

  


She put on a thoughtful face, then wiggled her hand in a so-so gesture.

  


He felt betrayed, and his deeply hurt face let her know that.

  


“Hey, don’t get me wrong, magic is cool,” she explained. “But classes? Eww. And I heard this teacher is really just blegh!”

  


“She’s right,” Blaise agreed. “Those were even their exact words. ‘Professor Quirrell is just blegh.’”

  


Horrified, he turned to Daphne. “They’re kidding, right? This teacher isn’t really that bad, is he?”

  


“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” she replied as they joined the rest of the students streaming through the door to a somewhat gloomy classroom.

  


“He better freaking not be,” he muttered to himself as he followed.


	10. Nothing like a little chaos to work up an appetite

Stepping into the dingy room, he looked up to see a large skeleton of what he thought might have been a wyvern hanging from the ceiling.

 

 _Inviting_.

 

Unlike the charms classroom, these seats were two-person desks. Following the girls, Daphne and Blaise took one desk on the left side of the room, and he slid in next to Tracey behind them.

 

“What are you doing?” a male voice immediately demanded from behind him. Turning around, he found a boy staring at him as if he was the most confusing thing in the world.

 

He made a point of looking deliberately at his bench before answering. “Sitting, I think.”

 

“You can’t sit over here. This is the Slytherin side of the room.”

 

Looking around, he noticed that all the students on this side of the room were indeed wearing green-and-silver-trimmed robes, while his Ravenclaw counterparts were similarly clustered on the other side of the room. He also noticed that Daphne and Blaise were looking back at him in surprise, not having realized he had followed them. Tracey, meanwhile, just looked annoyed with the boy raising the objection.

 

The supposedly out of place Ravenclaw, on the other hand, began looking exaggeratedly at the walls and ceiling.

 

“What are you doing now?” the increasingly irate boy behind them demanded.

 

“Checking for ‘Slytherin only’ banners. Oddly enough, I don’t seem to be finding any. I’d guess that means we can sit wherever we want, right? There’s no actual rule about only sitting with your housemates?”

 

“There doesn’t have to be! Everyone knows you only sit with your own house. That’s just how it is. That means you can’t sit over here with us.”

 

“Oh, I’m not sitting over here with you,” he corrected. “I’m sitting over here with _them._ ” He nodded his head at the girls, two of whom looked increasingly entertained by the exchange, while Daphne looked both slightly concerned and thoughtful. At least, for those who could read past her bored-looking mask, she did.

 

“Yeah, and they’re one of us!” Captain Complainer insisted belligerently.

 

“They are?” he asked blandly before turning to the girls. “My condolences.” After all, being associated on any level with that red-faced boy with cow-like eyes and a churlish expression was hardly a compliment to anyone.

 

He could see confusion in the boy’s face as he tried to figure out what he meant, though the girls apparently understood, given their snickering and the twitching corners of Daphne’s lips. That was apparently enough to tip the boy off that he had been insulted somehow, given how he narrowed his wide-set eyes.

 

“Oh, leave it alone, Nott,” Daphne interrupted before he could speak. “Think of it this way: it’ll be quite a coup if Slytherin house manages to steal away the famous Harry Potter from the ravens, now wouldn’t it?”

 

The boy quietly mouthed her words in confusion.

 

“Hrrr. Harry Potter sit. Good for Slytherin. Make Slytherin happy. Ravenclaw sad. No more Harry Potter for them,” Blaise helpfully translated in fluent caveman.

 

“Whatever,” the boy spat, apparently tired of the conversation.

 

“Yay!” Tracey celebrated, seizing his left arm in a fierce hug. “You hear that? You’re an honorary snake, now!”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Daphne countered. “He’s more like a raven that we’ve simply decided not to eat.” She thought for a moment. “Yet,” she amended.

 

“Isn’t it the birds that eat the snakes?” he asked in amusement.

 

“Only the garden snakes,” she explained. “Vipers are no such prey.” Three guesses which one she considered herself to be.

 

“I’ve always liked foxes more, myself,” Tracey happily shared. “I like their tiny little noses and big, bushy tails.”

 

Daphne sighed in exasperation, apparently not thinking that a fox was a proper animal for a Slytherin to favor.

 

Blaise, of course, decided to capitalize on an opportunity to nettle the golden-haired girl even further. “I’m more of a lion girl, myself. They’re brave, and bold, and red and gold are such fetching colors.”

 

Daphne glared at her, while Blaise simply made cat-like clawing gestures at the girl to further illustrate her point. Daphne laid her head on the desk with a soft thump.

 

“G-g-g-g-good morning, c-c-class,” Professor Quirrell nervously called out, finally stepping out of his office to begin class. “W-welc-c-c-come to D-d-d-d … _Defense_ ag-g-g-gainst the D-d-d-dark Arts.” He paused to give a nervous titter.

 

 _Oh, no_.

 

“This c-c-class will f-f-f-f-focus on learning about d-d-d-defensive spells and d-d-d-d-d …. d- _dark_ creatures.” The turbaned professor gave a shudder at his own words, apparently somewhat terrified of his own subject, which was further evidenced by the way he constantly wrung his hands. “We will st-st-st-start with b-b-b-bowt-t-t-truckles.”

 

He pulled a Daphne and let his head thump onto his desk. He didn’t even raise it as the teacher slowly and twitchily began explaining how the little leaf-like creatures lived on and guarded wand-quality trees, or how they were especially drawn to the Wiggantree, which was the magical variety of rowan trees, the tree that gave him the wood for his wand.

 

All of this was interesting, but there were two problems. For one thing, he had been hoping for training in more actual magic, and combat magic in particular, leaving him thoroughly disappointed, especially after having finally made a connection with his wand. But above all, the man’s choppy, almost perpetually panicked recitation was nearly painful to listen to and somehow managed to turn what could have been an interesting lecture into something of an affliction.

 

He turned to the similarly bored Tracey beside him. “He _is_ blegh!”

 

“Told you,” she whispered back.

 

 _Well, I’ll be damned if I just waste this whole period_ , he thought. Drawing his wand, he focused on his newfound connection to it. It was still there, thrumming with life as the cord reached from his core to the wand in his hand, joining it to him like a new, still slightly awkward foreign limb. He tried thinking of another spell to practice, ideally one that would draw less attention than the lighting charm.

 

Hearing a snap and a quiet curse, he turned to see that Tracey had just broken her quill. She brushed it aside as she rummaged through her bag for a new one.

 

He stared at the broken quill as his mind flashed back to one of the first displays of wand magic he had witnessed, all the way back to that creepy old man’s Shop of Doom. Focusing on his wand, he let his mind fill with the tune he remembered hearing from the old man’s magic as he cast the spell. With a victorious smile, he heard his wand resonating.

 

He pointed his wand at the quill, and the quill became whole once more.

 

Hastily sheathing his wand, he pretended to be listening to the lecture as the tiny girl beside him finally pulled herself out of her bag with a fairly battered quill in her hand. Of course, that was when she spotted her previous quill, which lay there completely unbroken.

 

Out the corner of his eye, he could see her face scrunch up in confusion as she tried to reconcile the quill she remembered snapping with the decidedly unsnapped quill now in her hand. Eventually, she shrugged and dropped her backup quill in her bag, taking up her unknowingly repaired quill once more.

 

With a restrained smile, he found himself pondering the mechanics of the charm he had just cast. He didn’t know its actual name, or even its incantation, but it apparently was used to repair things. However, he found himself wondering exactly how it did so. For one thing, what exactly was responsible for deciding what qualified as broken or whole? He thought back to how the wand-maker had cast this charm on his stool, and later on his counter. Why exactly was it that the charm returned a broken stool to a non-broken stool? Why didn’t it, say, return it to its base components, such as to a stack of lumber, which could be considered to have been broken in the process of being sawed and shaped into the stool? Why did it not turn the stool back into the tree it had been before being cut down for the lumber? That could be considered its truly whole and unbroken form as well.

 

 _Maybe its based on the perspective of the caster_ , he considered. After all, there wasn’t really an objective standard of non-broken. Everything could be considered the altered or broken form of something else. Therefore, the charm must work off of a subjective standard of broken and whole. Since the wand-maker saw the stool as the thing’s proper form, the charm returned it to that state.

 

That raised some interesting implications that he was eager to test, but it also led to the question of exactly how the charm repaired something in the first place. Thinking back to the wandshop once more, he remembered watching the stool and counter fly back together. It was almost like watching time reverse.

 

He blinked at the possibilities that could have, almost desperate to rush out of class and start experimenting.

 

Deciding a small trial would be okay, he surreptitiously tore off pieces of his parchment. The tiny shreds scattered over his desk like snowflakes as he pointed his wand at them from beneath the desk. Fascinated, he watched the parchment reassemble itself, with the shreds of parchment drifting back together in the reverse order he had torn them.

 

Glancing around, he was happy to see that everyone was either completely zoning out, like Tracey, who was now doodling on her parchment, or else was focusing intently on the professor’s broken words, like Daphne.

 

 _Nerd_.

 

Blaise, meanwhile, was staring at the professor with her head in her hand, leaving some ambiguity as to whether she was dozing off or just listening unenthusiastically.

 

Turning back to his experiment, he traced his hand over the once shredded parchment. There was no seam or any other indication there had been anything done to the parchment. Deciding to try another test, he grabbed his own quill and drew a quick scribble on the parchment. This time, when he pointed his wand from below the desk, he focused on the parchment not just whole and untorn, but bereft of any ink. Using his training with Manisha, he emptied his mind of anything but his vision of the parchment’s proper form: whole and unblemished.

 

His brow furrowed in concentration, he cast the spell. As its chorus faded, he gently reached out his hand, delicately tracing the spot he had marked.

 

The completely unmarred spot.

 

Focusing even more closely, he didn’t even see any indentation on the paper from where his quill had pressed it. There was absolutely no sign it had ever been touched. He grinned widely.

 

Pulled back to the real world by the sound of Tracey’s quill idly scratching her own parchment, which was now filled with tiny drawings and just pure scribbles, found himself wondering next whether the effects of the spell could be undone. After all, the lighting charm included a counter spell to reverse its effects, so obviously some spells could be countered. Was that only limited to certain spells, though, or could any spell potentially be reversed? Professor Flitwick had mentioned that the _lumos_ charm was one of the few to include a counter spell, but was that because it was one of the only ones that could be countered like that, or was it just that no-one had ever felt the need to develop counter spells for other charms?

 

He focused on the charm he had cast, and on the tune his magic sang to make it happen. Curious, he tried … reversing that song, for lack of a better term. Almost nervous, he let that inverted tune resonate through his core as he listened for a resonance from his wand.

 

A resonance it made.

 

Excited, he was about to cast the possible counter charm on the parchment, but he paused when he heard Tracey’s quill scratching on her parchment. With a wicked grin, he cast the spell on a new target.

 

Tracey jerked out of her near delirium by the quill in her hand snapping once more. Sighing, she brushed it aside once more to dig through her bag for the backup quill yet again.

 

Meanwhile, her deskmate stared at the broken quill in triumph, hardly able to believe that had worked. Spotting an opportunity for further chaos, he hastily repaired the quill once more.

 

Tracey resurfaced with her backup quill only to stare at her once-again unbroken quill. Reaching out, she gently prodded it with her battered quill, only to appear completely baffled when it truly appeared to be unbroken. Cautiously picking it up, she looked all around her for clues to this mystery. He, of course, made sure he looked completely absorbed in the stuttery lecture.

 

Eventually deciding she would find no answers to her spontaneously healing quill, she slowly returned to her doodling.

 

At least, until he subtly reversed the charm several minutes later.

 

Tracey let out a very audible sound of annoyance before taking the quill fragments and breaking them both in half once more, this time throwing them all on the floor before digging for her backup quill once more.

 

Unsure whether this would work, he cast the charm once more, this time focusing on a bit more than the quill being whole. Repeating his previous mental trick, he tried viewing that entire half of the desk, and everything on it, as one single entity, like a bookshelf filled with volumes. If he was repairing something like that, he wouldn’t just want the shelves to be whole once more. He would want it returned to the way it was, with everything back in its proper place. In the same way, he wanted that quill both whole and in its previous spot on the desktop.

 

In excitement mixed with growing amusement, he watched the quill fragments drift back onto the desk and together once more in a complete reversal of their previous trajectory.

 

 _Maybe it’s not so much of a repairing charm as a restoration charm_ , he wondered as the now highly disturbed Tracey sat up to spot her unbroken quill laying on her parchment once more. _It seems to restore things to a previous state rather than simply reassembling the pieces of something that was broken. That would also explain why, when the wand-dealer repaired his counter, that included the till as well, and when he was done, the till was back on the counter like it originally had been rather than sitting separately on the floor, despite the fact that the till and the counter were two separate items_. He eyed his wand once more. _This charm is versatile_.

 

The thoroughly spooked Tracey, meanwhile, took great care to not touch the quill as she gently and nervously scooted the doodled parchment to the side with the quill still on it. From the way she was uncomfortably eyeing the thing, she seemed to have come to the conclusion that it was haunted.

 

 _Oh, I am going to have so much fun with this spell_ , he thought with a Faraji-like grin.

 

Sadly, the class ended before he could get Tracey to attempt exorcisms on a quill.

 

She never even touched her parchment as she joined the rest of the class in gathering up her things, apparently more than willing to sacrifice her doodles to the demon quill.

 

Which, of course, allowed him the perfect opportunity to snag the quill for himself.

 

As he joined the rest of the class in streaming out the door, he gently tugged on Blaise’s sleeve to slow her down, allowing the subtly fleeing Tracey to fall into step with Daphne while Blaise lingered back with him. She gave him a curious look.

 

“How do you feel about pranks?” he asked hopefully.

 

Her dark eyes gleamed. “I knew you were going to be fun this year,” she said brightly. “What have you got?”

 

He held out the quill.

 

She eyed the bland object.

 

“Maybe I spoke too soon,” she amended.

 

“Hey, start small so you have somewhere to go from there,” he argued.

 

“Well, this seems to be about as small as it comes, but I’ll bite: What’s the deal here?”

 

“I want you to set this on Tracey’s pillow,” he explained.

 

She gave him a flat look. “Oh, however will the teachers manage with a troublemaker like you running around?” she asked in as dry a voice as he had ever heard.

 

He glared at her. “Yeah, you’re right, we should just go with your idea instead.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, wait …”

 

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll help with your unbelievably lame prank.”

 

“That’s the spirit!” he said happily. “Besides, I have a feeling it won’t be quite as lame as you think.”

 

“Whatever you say,” she patronizingly assured him while storing the quill in her bag.

 

Immediately after, Daphne poked her head back into the classroom. “Are you two coming or not?”

 

Tracey cautiously poked her head around the door-frame as well. “Yeah, can we go? This place gives me the serious heebie-jeebies.”

 

“Wait a minute …,” Daphne looked far too thoughtful as she scanned the classroom, which was completely abandoned except for him and Tracey, with Stutters McTurbanface having returned to his office.

 

Suddenly very aware of the imminent danger he was in due to the lack of witnesses, he hastily dove behind Blaise.

 

“Remind me again why you weren’t placed in Gryffindor?” his human shield dryly asked the boy peaking over her shoulder at the much-shorter-than-him blonde girl in the doorway.

 

“Because I’m just so wise,” he answered her without taking his eyes off Daphne, who was fingering her wand thoughtfully and with a certain amount of her glare from breakfast.

 

“Oh, just let him go, Daph,” Tracey said. “Besides, I’m hungry.”

 

“You’re always hungry, Tracey,” Daphne countered.

 

“Nu-uh! I wasn’t hungry at breakfast this morning!” she argued.

 

“So that’s why you only stole all of my food _and_ Daphne’s?” Blaise asked sarcastically.

 

“Yep!” she answered genuinely.

 

Daphne sighed. “Fine,” she relented, pocketing her wand. “But can we please go?”

 

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You first.”

 

Visibly disappointed that he didn’t break cover like she had hoped, she left the room.

 

Blaise rolled her eyes as he closely followed her out of the room and deliberately kept her between him and Daphne in the corridor.

 

“So, what were your thoughts on Professor Calm, Cool, and Collected back there?” he asked the group.

 

“He seemed very well informed on his subject,” Daphne answered diplomatically.

 

Blaise snorted. “That’s Daphne-speak for ‘He sucked.’”

 

Daphne opened her mouth to retort, but then let the translation stand.

 

“And just think, only seven more years of his class to go,” he sarcastically silver-lining-ed.

 

“Not necessarily,” Daphne replied cryptically. He shot her a questioning look. “I’ve heard that they have a surprisingly difficult time holding on to Defense against the Dark Arts teachers. None of them seem to last more than a year, for some reason.”

 

“Blah blah blah. Talk later. Food now,” Tracey interrupted as the stepped into the Great Hall.

 

“Yes, how dare we spend time speaking with each other like human beings when there is food to be eaten,” Blaise said. “We should be ashamed of ourselves.”

 

“You should!” Tracey emphatically agreed.

 

As he took a seat at the Ravenclaw table, she immediately joined him, hastily snagging a plate and filling it as if starving to death.

 

“Tracey, what are you doing? Our table is over there,” Daphne pointed out.

 

“This one’s closer to the door,” Tracey reasoned before beginning to stuff her face.

 

Daphne looked at Blaise to help her, but the dark-skinned girl took a seat at the Ravenclaw table too. “It _is_ closer,” she explained with a shrug, grabbing her own plate. “And besides, Professor Flitwick said we could sit here.”

 

“Yes, but …,” Daphne trailed off, looking over at her housemates at the Slytherin table, who would undoubtedly make note of them sitting at another table. Even if no actual rule was being broken, this would undoubtedly weaken their standing in the house of the cunning, as it would paint them as outsiders in their eyes. The numerous green-robed students silently staring at her made that very clear.

 

The resident mage noticed her struggle.

 

“Come on and join us, Daphne,” he quietly prompted her. When she turned to look at him, her eyes widened, as a plate subtly floated over to the spot next to Blaise and across from him. He simply stared at her without glancing at the plate or moving his empty hands from the tabletop. “You’re going to need to keep your strength up. Classes have only just started, after all. We still have a lot more to learn today.” He gave a wry grin. “Besides, I think you might actually have to wrestle Tracey to separate her from my plate,” he added, nodding to the girl freely swiping food from his plate.

 

“Your food looks better,” the redhead shamelessly justified.

 

“It’s the exact same food as yours, Trace,” he pointed out.

 

“Not quite,” Blaise chimed in. “After all, yours has the added zest of being stolen.”

 

“Exactly!” Tracey happily agreed.

 

Daphne looked at the plate set in front of her, then back at the boy parrying Tracey’s fork with his own, once more with her customary look of weighing and judging. With one final glance over at her still silently observing housemates at the other table, she took a seat.

 

“Good of you to join us, Daphne,” Blaise complimented. “After all, the dark side just wouldn’t be the same without you.”

 

Daphne rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face.

 

* * *

 

“I swear, that girl has twelve hands,” he muttered to himself as he joined the stream of students entering the transfiguration classroom, still slightly hungry due to the irrepressible Tracey stealing most of his food. However, his eagerness to begin learning this branch of magic more than took the edge off his hunger. After all, transfiguration was something that the monastery had virtually no analogue for, making him more than a little excited to get started.

 

With that in mind, he hastily grabbed a seat near the front and center of the classroom, only half noticing that the classroom was arranged in three lines of two-seated desks, making everyone’s apparent subconscious impulse to divide every class along house lines doomed to failure.

 

Evidently, he was also not the only one who was excited about starting, as his bushy-haired Gryffindor shadow of course dove into the seat next to him. She was so focused on eagerly pulling out and stacking her books and laying out her parchment just so that she didn’t even seem to notice him sitting next to her. Meanwhile, he was busy debating whether or not to give her a good poke to check whether she was in fact real or whether his previous theory about her haunting him had any actual weight to it.

 

After a few moments of silently debating, he decided that she might take him jabbing her in the ribs somewhat amiss, assuming she was actually corporeal. He decided instead to simply pull out his own things, though his layout ended up being nowhere near as meticulous as her own.

 

“I do hope you’re not planning on blinding us all again,” his deskmate snootily commented, apparently noticing who she was sitting with at last.

 

“Wasn’t planning on it, but I always can if it starts getting too boring in here,” he retorted. “Why? Would that … _brighten_ up your day?”

 

She groaned and shook her head as he snickered.

 

For the next several minutes, everyone sat in relative silence, waiting for the teacher to arrive and start the class. All the while, a large cat sat on the teacher’s desk staring at them all with, to his eyes, curiously human intelligence.

 

Just when he began wondering whether he should go and knock on the door to the teacher’s office behind the desk, the room echoed with the sound of a door slamming open, followed by running footsteps and panting breaths.

 

Turning, he saw the redheaded boy with faded robes staggering up the aisles.

 

“Hah! Made it!” he gasped victoriously. “Would’ve hated to see the look on old McGonagall’s face if I was late.”

 

Apparently, he didn’t need to imagine what that looked like, as the large cat leaped off the desk, transforming mid-pounce into everyone’s favorite stern-faced transfiguration professor.

 

He dropped his wand with a clatter at the sight.

 

“That was bloody brilliant,” the redheaded boy assessed.

 

 _I don’t know. She definitely gets points for style and surprise, but Flitwick’s display had a lot more flash to it. Seven out of ten_ , he judged.

 

_On a side note, THESE PEOPLE CAN TRANSFORM INTO FREAKING ANIMALS?! HOLY CRAP, THAT’S AWESOME!_

 

He joined his deskmate in sitting eagerly forward in his chair as the scolded boy took a seat and the professor got into position to start the class.

 

“Greetings, and welcome to transfiguration,” she began in her usual Scottish brogue. “My name is Professor McGonagall, and what I am about to teach you is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn here at Hogwarts.”

 

 _Oh, hell yes_.

 

“Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned,” she quietly threatened. “But, for those with the necessary discipline, transfiguration can be a most rewarding subject.”

 

With a wave of her wand and a musical cadence (to his ears, at least), her desk was transformed into a pig that snuffled and looked around curiously. With another wave, the pig was a desk once more.

 

She then went on to give a very scientific-sounding explanation that transfiguration was largely influenced by what she referred to as the transformation formula, which was comprised of mass, viciousness, wand power, concentration, and a fifth unknown variable. The latter was, of course, extremely helpful and informative. She then explained that transfiguration became increasingly difficult as one moved from transfiguring an inanimate object into another inanimate object all the way to transfiguring one animate object into another animate object. Human transfiguration, she fiercely explained, was among the most difficult and dangerous types of transfiguration, and not to be attempted without the utmost care, and absolutely never alone.

 

“After all,” she explained, “when one transfigures oneself into an animal, for instance, one will become that animal, mind and body. This will leave you unable to transform back alone. This is why it is crucial that such magic never be attempted lightly, and always with another experienced witch or wizard on hand to assist.”

 

He raised his hand at that. “How did you change back from a cat then, professor?”

 

“An astute question,” she remarked. “What you witnessed was known as the animagus transformation. It differs from human transfiguration in that one retains their mind in the altered form, and it can furthermore be performed without the use of a wand or incantation. Of course, this comes at the expense of it being an exceptionally difficult talent to learn, and one that is both heavily regulated by the government and only allows transformation into one form, and one that cannot be chosen by the caster at that.”

 

 _The animagus transformation, huh? I’ll have to look into that_.

 

“However,” she continued, “what you will be learning today is something far simpler by comparison. You will be attempting to transfigure a machstick into a needle.” With a wave of her wand, a gentle horizontal hailstorm of matches floated from a box on her desk onto their own. “Notice that a matchstick and a needle are roughly similar in shape and mass. This eases the transition from one to the other, as per the ‘mass’ element in the transformation formula we discussed. Throughout the year, we will gradually transfigure items that differ more and more strongly from each other in terms of mass, shape, and complexity. Much like learning any talent, this practice will slowly prepare you for more advanced forms of transfiguration down the line. But for now, remember to concentrate on what you desire the matchstick to look like. The more clearly you picture your target, the more easily it will become reality.”

 

With a final explanation of the incantation and wand movement involved in this spell, as well as extra emphasis placed on these being performed precisely to manage a successful transfiguration, they were off.

 

Rather than start immediately, he took a moment to observe his classmates in their attempts. His ears were gently battered with a jumbled mixture of overly enunciated incantations and slightly off-tune musical choruses, while his eyes were treated to the sight of many of his classmates impersonating windmills, as they evidently took “precise wand movements” to mean “ridiculously exaggerated and grandiose gestures.”

 

Watching his deskmate, he was unsurprised to see that she was being far more successful than most of the rest of the class, with her match turning silver and resembling a mix of match and needle in shape. Scrunching up her face in effort, she continued casting.

 

The class soon echoed with a bang as Bomberman detonated his matchstick in his attempt.

 

 _Don’t know what else should have been expected, what with him being given actual flammable material to work with_ , he thought with a grin as Professor McGonagall floated a replacement matchstick over to the once again soot-stained Irish boy.

 

Finally turning to his own matchstick, he allowed the tune of the spell to resonate through his core as he cleared his mind of all else but the needle he wanted the match to turn into. Silently pointing his wand, he felt the magic leave his wand and envelop the matchstick, slowly turning it into a silvery needle.

 

Picking it up, he gently rapped it against the desktop, noting with pleasure that the needle gave off a clear ring of metal rather than the clunk of wood. Reversing the tune, he cast once more, watching the needle turn back into a matchstick.

 

“How did you do that?” his neighbor demanded with a whisper.

 

He raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

 

“You didn’t use the incantation!” she whisper-scolded.

 

“Didn’t I?” he asked blandly.

 

“No, you did not!”

 

“Oh, okay, let me try again.” He cleared his throat and pointed his wand at the matchstick. “ _Flibbertigibbet!”_ The matchstick once again became a needle.

 

His deskmate was not impressed.

 

“That wasn’t the incantation!” she emphatically informed him.

 

“Are you sure?” he asked her.

 

“Yes! I am!”

 

“Hmm. Hold on, let me try one more time.” Once again clearing his throat, he pointed his wand at the newly made needle.

 

“ _Tebbigitrebbilf!_ ”

 

The needle turned back into a matchstick.

 

The bushy-haired girl’s confused glare became even more heated. “Those weren’t incantations! They were just nonsense words!”

 

He shrugged. “Sounded pretty much the same to me.”

 

The girl glared even more fiercely at him, but eventually decided that ignoring him was best. She turned away and began repeating her incantations on her now almost perfect needle, though with an expression that said the needle had deeply wronged her at some point in their past.

 

Turning back to his matchstick, he started another round of experiments.

 

_Okay, so transfiguration is capable of altering not only the shape, but the actual composition of the object, turning wood into metal. And that’s not even touching on the insanity of it creating actual living creatures out of things like desks. But let’s focus on separating the elements of the transfiguration for now._

 

Narrowing his eyes, he focused on the tune of the spell, and on trimming parts of it away to alter the effect of the spell. Satisfied, he cast the modified spell. He watched curiously as the brown wood of the matchstick faded away and turned silver, but this time without changing its shape at all.

 

Hefting the silver match, he gently rapped it against the desk once more. This time, it had a slight thud to it, suggesting that it wasn’t fully metal in the middle.

 

Altering the tune of the charm once more, he recast. This time, the silver match made a pleasant ring as he tapped it.

 

“A decent attempt, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall critiqued. “However, you still have a bit of work left. Be sure to visualize not just the material, but the shape of the needle.”

 

“Will do, professor,” he absently replied, not looking away from his experiment or bothering to correct her as he pondered whether he could change the material to different kinds of metal, or even other materials entirely.

 

Looking inward, he tuned out the sounds of the outside world, and of the professor praising his deskmate for her perfectly formed needle, drawing the class’s attention to how silver and pointy it was. This time, when he cast the spell, he didn’t just let the magic leave his wand in a brief burst like normal. Instead, he maintained the connection to the matchstick, and with that, he slowly started to adjust parts of the spell’s song, constantly shifting the notes and cadence and rhythm to see just how much he could change the matchstick.

 

He watched in intense focus as the match started ceaselessly morphing from silver to brown, to copper, to stone gray, and on and on. All the while, he also watched the shape change from a stick to a small cube, to a sphere, to a tiny flat sheet, and even to a spike, and that was just to start. He didn’t try to change the object’s overall size too much, though, trying to keep this relatively circumspect. However, he also noticed that he started facing more and more difficulty when he tried to change the material to denser or more valuable materials. Trying to change the material to gold, for instance, utterly failed.

 

 _Maybe more drastic changes like that require more raw power or something_ , he mused. He wasn’t sure. He had a long ways to go before he fully understood this branch of magic, though; he knew that much.

 

He was so caught up in these thoughts that he didn’t even notice the bushy-haired girl staring open-mouthed at his constantly shifting former matchstick.

 

“That’s enough for today, class,” the professor announced. “Your assignment is one foot of parchment on the transformation formula and how this influences transfiguration.” This news was received with mass groans from most of the class.

 

Not from him, though. With this as his last class for the day, he was too busy looking forward to tracking down a place to really start experimenting with this new magic to care much about one page’s worth of writing.

 

However, as he made his way out of the classroom, he found himself accosted by his former deskmate.

 

“How did you do that?” she demanded.

 

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m getting some déjà vu here. Didn’t we already do this during class?”

 

“I saw you,” she said almost accusatorily. “You were changing your matchstick without any incantation, and you weren’t just turning it into a needle. How were you doing that?”

 

“I wanted to see some of the limits of transfiguration, so I adjusted the spell to change the match in different ways,” he answered simply.

 

The girl spluttered a bit. “But … you can’t do that.”

 

“I can’t?” he asked with a wry grin. “Well, that’s embarrassing. You should have told me that before I did it. Now I look foolish!”

 

“You can’t just … change a spell like that,” she persisted, appearing equal parts confused and almost offended. “It isn’t possible. A talented and experienced witch or wizard can manipulate the effects slightly, but they can’t change the entire function of the spell. Everything I have read has said that when performed properly, spells always produce certain predictable results. A spell to turn a matchstick into a needle can’t simply be changed to turn the matchstick into something else. It doesn’t work like that.”

 

“Apparently it can,” he observed.

 

“No, it can’t!” she insisted. “According to all the books, what you just did isn’t possible!”

 

He shrugged. “The way I see it, if you let everyone else tell you what is and is not possible, you will only ever learn what _they_ can do, not what _you_ can do. I prefer to find my own limits, and my own possibilities.”

 

The girl opened and closed her mouth silently as she tried to respond. “But these people have written _books_! They’re older! And more skilled! They’re _experts_!”

 

“And they’re still them, and not me,” he replied.

 

She seemed rather upset with that answer. “So you just don’t care anything about what these more experienced witches and wizards have said? You don’t care what they have to teach us?”

 

“Of course I care,” he answered. “You’ll always get farther building off of someone else’s teachings than simply going it alone. But I’m not going to use what they have to teach me in order to make myself another them; I’m going to use it to make myself a better me, _my_ way. And when they say that only certain things are possible, I’m not just going to accept that as unquestionable fact. I’m going to test it for myself. How else will I know what I’m really capable of?”

 

“Well I think that’s foolish,” the girl decided. “They’re adults. They know better than us. As students, we’re supposed to trust that they know what they’re doing better than us, and we should let _them_ teach us what’s possible. Trying to learn that ourselves is arrogant and reckless, and more than a little stupid.”

 

He shrugged again. “Hey, what’s life without a little stupid recklessness now and then?”

 

“How about ‘smart’? Or maybe ‘s _afe_ ’ _?_ ” she answered.

 

“Blegh.”

 

“Oh, _very_ eloq– … wait, where are you going?” She only then realized she had followed him all the way out of the castle and onto the grounds, and that the Dark Forest was looming in front of them.

 

“Remember what I just said about the importance of the occasional stupid recklessness?” he answered with a question, continuing to walk casually towards the forest.

 

She gasped as she realized that he actually meant to enter. “You can’t go in there! It’s forbidden!”

 

“Hence the word ‘stupid’,” he said.

 

“But … but there are dark creatures in there! It’s dangerous!” She sounded truly alarmed now.

 

“And there’s the ‘recklessness’,” he agreed with a grin.

 

She gaped at him. “You’re insane.”

 

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But at least _I’m_ not boring.”

 

With those words, he stepped into the trees, with his bushy-haired shadow lingering fretfully outside the fringes.

 

“I’m not boring,” he heard her mutter almost petulantly. “And you are going to be in so much trouble!” she yelled after him.

 

“Only if I get caught!” he called back with a laugh.

 

“I’ll tell a teacher!” she threatened.

 

“I really wouldn’t recommend that!” he yelled back, still continuing on.

 

With a wordless groan of frustration, the huffy girl who was clearly channeling some deceased teacher’s spirit finally stomped off.

 

“She is going to be so much fun this year,” he decided with a smile as he shucked his outer robes to store in his bag. He did hope that she’d give his words some thought, though. The high grandmaster put it much better than he ever could, but he hoped he had phrased it in a way that could still reach her, at least a little. She seemed like she needed that lesson more than he had.

 

Regardless, with her gone, he finally had a chance to truly stretch his muscles, and that wasn’t an opportunity he was willing to delay any longer.

 

With every step into the forest, he moved faster and faster, moving from simply walking to trotting to outright sprinting. His muscles ached with joy at finally being used after being cooped up in classrooms all day. He may have been able to tolerate hunkering in that tiny room at the Leaky Cauldron when deep in the throes of obsession over unlocking the secret to wizarding magic, but it was quickly becoming clear to him that he wouldn’t be managing anything of the sort again any time soon. He was far, _far_ too accustomed to the more physically-oriented lifestyle of the monastery to be comfortable behind a desk for long.

 

With that realization, he began picking up even more speed. His feet pounded on the forest floor, effortlessly avoiding roots and surprisingly tough underbrush as if he had been born in a forest, and in a way, he kind of had been. It was in a forest that his powers had truly awakened, after all.

 

A wolf-like grin split his face as he breathed deep of the curious scent of the woods. Like most forests, it smelled like a strange mix of both life and death, with the grass and fertile soil being crushed under foot and the musk of the leaves and branches whipping by his face being undercut with the mildewy smell of rotting bark and hidden mushrooms.

 

He pushed himself harder, trying to force his lungs to fill even more with the intoxicating aroma. Trees began to blur past as he poured his power into his muscles, reaching and then casually surpassing the natural limits of flesh. He wanted to howl with joy at the freedom of his run.

 

All around him, the forest grew darker, not because the sun was setting, but because the trees simply became so tall and so thick that they blocked out almost all traces of light, leaving the entire forest in a perpetual state of twilight. For a moment, he found himself flashing back to his dream, and his flight from the hunter, but the exhilaration of his run quickly dispersed those thoughts. He pushed himself even harder, happily sinking even deeper into the sheer power of the moment as he ran.

 

His nose twitched as the crisp, cold presence of light fog began to coat the ground and hide his pumping feet. Eventually, his ears caught the faint sound of a gurgling creek. The gentle sound grew only faintly louder as he came closer. Gradually, he slowed from his recklessly free sprint down to a light jog, eventually coming to an outright halt as he stepped between two trees to spot the tiny brook as it gently flowed over smooth polished stones and wandered deeper into the forest.

 

Stepping forward, he gently kneeled on its bank and cupped some of the clear water, drinking deeply of the honey-sweet liquid.

 

Standing, he decided to walk along the bank for a while, following its meandering path as it led him deeper and deeper into the forest. For some time, his world was filled with little else other than the soothing sound of the bubbling creek, the almost nourishing scent of of the trees, and the quiet peace of the moment as he continued walking.

 

In time, the creek grew louder as he came upon a shelf of earth where the forest floor dropped sharply in a short but steep hill. The creek carved its own furrow in the hill, digging down to layers of rock that were hidden under the soil. The meter-wide creek fell in a tiny, broken waterfall as it gently tumbled down the stones into a small pond a few meters down.

 

Delicately sliding down the small shelf of earth, he stepped out onto the bank of the pond, which was only a little wider than he was tall. Gazing past the pond to where it once more reverted back to a creek and returned to its endless journey through the forest, he spotted a massive tree that had fallen across its path, though it lay above the ground enough to not impede its progress. However, he was more interested in the rays of sunshine that broke free of the foliage above to illuminate this spot because of the scar it had torn through the treetops as it fell, allowing just this one area to break free of the eternal dusk that was the rest of the forest and to instead glisten with an almost dawn-like glow.

 

Stomping his foot, he paid attention to the hard, compact earth hidden beneath the grass. Gazing from side to side, he noticed how large and empty this area was due to the tree’s massive size preventing any other trees from taking root immediately nearby. At least, when it was alive, it had. Turning back to the short but sharp hillside behind him, he noted how it was perfectly parallel to the fallen tree, with the two nearly framing the area, at least from two sides.

 

Almost like the practice ring back at the monastery.

 

 _Well, I guess I’ve found my new training area_ , he happily mused, once more eyeing the area for its potential. It needed some work, of course. It may have been devoid of trees, but there was still underbrush aplenty to get rid of, just as a start.

 

Of course, there was no rule that he couldn’t use that as a means to train himself as well.

 

Folding his arms, he began tapping his upper arm with his fingertips as he thought, trying to come up with a spell that he could practice on the underbrush.

 

_Transfiguration, maybe? I could turn the weeds into stones or something. Or maybe I could test out the restoration charm some more, maybe see if it truly does reverse time on its subject. I could potentially turn the weeds back into seeds if I could get that to work, assuming I view the seed as its proper state with the weed as the undesired alteration to that state._

 

However, that seemed like it would be a _far_ more advanced development of that spell, and so it would likely take a lot more time and effort to reach that level with it. After all, it was a fairly big leap from putting a quill back on a desk to un-growing plants, assuming that was even possible with the spell.

 

The transfiguration idea seemed promising, but, well, he kinda wanted to try something new here, something he hadn’t already tried in class yet.

 

That thought made him think back to those classes, and to one in particular.

 

A smile slowly spread across his face as he drew his wand, letting his core fill with one very particular tune. His wand resonated, and a whip crafted out of red-gold fire burst free of his wand, snaking through the air like an artistic representation of his thoughts as it coiled and trailed about with only the faintest of movements from his wand.

 

Slashing his wand to the side, the whip snapped through the underbrush in front of him, slashing through the tough weeds just as easily as it cut through the air. He let the quietly hissing and roaring flame trailing from his wand die as he knelt in front of the weeds. For several meters in front of him, a half circle of the weeds were cut through as if by a razor, with sharp, crisp edges, albeit blackened and smoking. A full two-fingers-width of material was simply missing where the whip had passed.

 

He smiled down at his wand. _I love magic_.

 

Standing, he looked around at the massive amount of weeds that still remained.

 

 _Now, let’s see if I can manage to burn the forest down on my first day of school_ , he thought with a grin. _After all, Faraji would be so proud_.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, he headed back through the woods to the school in a gentle lope, deeply tired, but eminently satisfied with his progress for the day. However, he found himself pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of a voice.

 

“C’mon, Fang. We’ve got ter find ‘im. We can’t let young ‘arry Potter go missin’ in these woods.”

 

Dropping low, he skulked from shadow to shadow as he moved closer, finally peering around the trunk of a tree to spot the giant from the train platform, along with a massive, wrinkle-faced hound.

 

 _So, I guess she told on me after all_.

 

He grinned.

 

Slinking back behind the tree, he began moving. Darting from shadow to shadow, he circled wide around the hunting pair. He had no fear of them finding him. When you had been buried in the dark as long as he had, the shadows almost seemed to seep into your very skin. As he had learned in the monastery, there were damn few who could find him once he went to ground in the shadows.

 

This time was no different. Neither giant nor hound turned their heads as he flitted from tree to tree like a living shadow himself. Resisting the urge to chuckle, he continued on his way to the edge of the trees. However, he wasn’t so thoughtless as to simply exit the forest once he reached the edge, as there were very likely teachers lying in wait to see him do exactly that. Instead, he lurked in the shadows inside the edge, and waited.

 

Eventually, his ears perked at the sound of footsteps, and not from inside the forest this time. As he watched, he was almost blinded by the eye-wateringly bright yellow robes of the white-bearded man as he appeared around the corner of a small hut on the grounds. At his side was the hook-nosed man, who seemed more sallow and gloomy than ever standing next to the living torchlight that was his eccentrically dressed companion.

 

“Day one, headmaster. Day bloody one,” he muttered to the lemon impersonator.

 

“Oh, come now, Severus. We’ve all made foolish choices in our youth,” his companion scolded good naturedly. “Surely you, of all people, cannot begrudge someone that.”

 

The hook-nosed man drew back as if stung by those words. However, gritting his teeth, he pressed on. “Well, with Potter’s blood, I suppose it was inevitable that he’d be as reckless and idiotic as this,” he retorted in a mockingly understanding voice. “Are we certain he’s even in the woods, however? I wouldn’t put it past the boy to have done all of this just to force us all on a wild goose chase.”

 

 _You, sir, are not wrong_ , he thought with a grin.

 

“Fairly certain, yes,” he wizened man replied. “The student who reported him seemed most genuine, and her teachers have so far all expressed their admiration of her responsible nature, not to mention her keen mind.”

 

“Meaning she’s a teacher’s pet and a know-it-all,” the sallow man interpreted. “I’m more than familiar with the doublespeak.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at the professor’s remark.

 

“Please try to keep such thoughts private, Severus,” the old man tiredly scolded, sounding as if he’d had the discussion more than once. However, he noticed that he also didn’t argue the other’s claim, surprisingly. “Regardless, Filius reported that the boy is not in his rooms, nor is he in the Great Hall, the library, or his common room. As such, we must assume that he is, in fact, in the forest for some reason.”

 

His companion gave the old man a strange look as they continued walking, drawing almost level with his hiding place. “How do you _not_ know where he is?” he asked. “Don’t the wards tell you where every student is located on the grounds?”

 

His felt more than a little alarm at hearing that.

 

“Normally, they do,” the old man replied. “However, for some reason, young Mr. Potter does not seem to register on the wards.” The old man’s lightly glowing blue eyes scanned the treeline as he spoke. However, they passed sightlessly over where he crouched motionless in his shadow.

 

The hook-nosed man stopped dead at the man’s words. “That’s not possible,” he breathed. “… Is it?”

 

“Nothing is fool-proof, Severus,” the old man replied, continuing on. “However, I’ll admit, I’d give quite a bit to learn how he has managed it.”

 

Meanwhile, their eavesdropper thought back to the lakeside on that night when he first arrived, and the aggressive, almost domineering magical presence that had threatened to sweep him away, before he managed to fight it off. Could that have been what the old man was talking about? Was that the castle’s wards trying to “register” him, or whatever they were supposed to do?

 

 _Whoops_ , he thought with a silent laugh.

 

“Well, that’s just wonderful, isn’t it?” the sallow man almost snarled. “The heir of Potter walks the school, and he apparently has even more carte blanche to unleash whatever chaos he wishes than even his father. Why don’t we simply give him his father’s invisibility cloak while we’re at it? Or better yet, tell him all about his father’s little pranking club ‘The Marauders’? That’s exactly what this school needs. Merlin forbid we experience any peace and quiet, or even more unthinkably, have our world revolve around something other than a bloody Potter!” The man was practically ranting at this point.

 

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you will be keeping an eye on him to ensure no such thing happens, now isn’t it?” the old man asked pleasantly.

 

“Quite,” the hook-nosed man hissed.

 

 _Oh, you’ll be keeping an eye on me, will you? I think not,_ he decided. _Unleashing chaos, though … well, if you insist_.

 

Looking out across the grounds, he spotted a tower-top that had owls gently flying in and out of it. Narrowing his eyes, he focused on one of the open windowsills they were passing through. He could barely make it out from this distance, but it was enough. With a grin, he opened a small portal against the tree. Stepping through, he found himself once more in his bedroom in Ravenclaw Tower. He wouldn’t be staying there for long, though. Opening his dresser, he hastily changed out of his grimy and grass-stained clothes. Grabbing a new set, he wadded them up tightly in a ball and worked them back and forth a bit before putting on the now slightly wrinkled uniform. After all, no-one’s clothes were perfectly pristine and smooth after being worn for an entire day.

 

The next part of his plan required a bit of luck, since he couldn’t exactly just walk out of his room without possibly raising some questions from whoever was in the common room, and so, crossing his fingers, he opened one more portal. Stepping through, he left the warm air of his room for the cold, slightly windy air of the Owlery tower-top. Thankfully, there was no-one inside, which made him let out a relieved breath. Allowing the portal to fade away, he dropped from the windowsill to the dropping-covered floor.

 

“Gross,” he commented. However, he did nothing to avoid walking through it. In fact, he did just the opposite. Meanwhile, he was silently stared at by several dozen large, unblinking eyes from the owls, who apparently didn’t quite know what to do with a human climbing in through a window several stories above the ground. Reaching out, he gave a nearby pair of light brown barn owls a good scratch between their shoulder blades, which they seemed to appreciate.

 

“As you were,” he called out to his audience as he made his way out of the tower. On his way, he reached down and snagged a loose feather, which he he rubbed against his sleeve until it stuck from the static electricity. All set, he continued down the staircase, and from there, began his trek through the school down to the front doors.

 

“I’m telling you, professor, he went into the forest!”

 

“I believe you, child,” the transfiguration professor assured the bushy-haired girl standing next to her. “I must say, I had hoped for better from him. His father never set much store by the rules, but his mother was one of our most diligent and responsible students. When he was sorted into Ravenclaw, I took that to be a sign that he took more after his mother. Apparently, I was mistaken.”

 

“Not necessarily, Minerva,” his diminutive head of house piped up from where he stood next to them in the entryway to the castle. “Lily may have been the more studious and academically brilliant of the two, but James was certainly no slouch himself, with some of the pranks he dreamed up, and I recall a time or two that Lily used … less than school-approved punishments, shall we say, to strike back at James and his friends, so she wasn’t exactly a devoted follower of the rules herself. It’s quite possible that young Harry takes after both.”

 

“A truly terrifying notion, that,” Professor McGonagall whispered in a tone of the deepest horror. She shuddered at her own words.

 

“Will they find him, professor?” the tattle-tale asked, sounding slightly concerned.

 

“I hope so, child,” Professor McGonagall answered her as they all continued to stare out across the grounds. “I hope so.”

 

“Excuse me,” he politely interrupted, casually stepping between them to head outside.

 

“Bu– … You, I– … hey!” the bossy girl spluttered.

 

“Hmm?” He turned around. “Is there something you wanted?” he innocently asked.

 

“Mr. Potter!” Professor McGonagall snapped in a tone that sounded like a mix of anger and sheer confusion. “Where have you been? And where do you think you are going?”

 

“I was just in the Owlery,” he answered, sounding even more confused than she was. “And I was hoping to read my book over by the lake,” he continued, holding up the textbook in his hand. “Why?”

 

“You’ve been in the Owlery all this time?” the professor asked suspiciously.

 

“All what time?” he asked in a tone of total confusion. “What’s going on?”

 

“You know full well what’s going on!” his classmate jumped in heatedly. “You were in the Dark Forest!”

 

“What? Why on earth would I go in there? It’s forbidden!” he sounded perfectly shocked and offended by the accusation. “Besides, that place is full of dark creatures! It’s dangerous! How stupidly reckless do you think I am?”

 

Butter would not melt in his mouth.

 

His classmate, meanwhile, seemed to be losing her powers of speech as her furious face turned even redder than her tie.

 

“Your classmate here insists that she watched you enter the forest some time ago,” Professor McGonagall once again seized control of the interrogation. “Would you care to explain that?”

 

“I … don’t really know why she would have told you that,” he answered. _If I had to guess, though, probably just out of sheer reflex_. “I thought we had been getting along fine in class today, but I guess I must have been mistaken.” He turned to the almost visibly steaming girl. “If I did something to upset or offend you earlier, then I’m sorry,” he said in sad, repentant tone.

 

The almost apoplectic girl seemed to be trying to say about a dozen things at once, though it mostly just resulted in her sounding like she had a hairball.

 

“What exactly were you doing in the Owlery?” Professor McGonagall continued. “Were you sending a letter?”

 

“No, I was just petting the owls,” he answered. “I’ve never really seen that many owls up close before.”

 

“He does look like he’s been in the Owlery,” Professor Flitwick chimed in, nodding at the feather on his sleeve and the owl droppings on the hem of his robes. “Besides, we’ve been standing here ever since we were told he had entered the forest. If he really had, we would have seen him reenter the castle. After all, you were just in the Great Hall when she found you, Minerva, so it’s not as if he could have even snuck back into the castle before we got here.”

 

“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed before turning a stern eye on the speechless girl. “I must say, I am very disappointed in you. Spreading such a malicious lie about a classmate? I expect better from one of my lions.”

 

“What? But yo– … he’s lying!” she cried.

 

“Hey! I never lie!” he responded in genuine offense.

 

“Enough!” the iron woman interrupted them both before turning back to the appalled girl. “I hope you recognize the severity of what you have done. Twenty points will be taken from Gryffindor, and you will receive detention with me this Saturday evening.” The poor girl looked absolutely horrified at this pronouncement.

 

“If I may, professor,” he politely spoke up, “since I was the one she was trying to get in trouble, can I request that she not be punished for this?”

 

He wasn’t sure which looked more surprised, the professor or the student. “Why, Mr. Potter?”

 

 _Because it will annoy the crap out of her when I rub that in her face_ , he thought. “Like I said, I don’t know for sure why she came to you with these accusations, but she’s sill my classmate. I’d really like to end whatever animosity is between us, if I can.” _Just not any time soon, of course. This is golden_.

 

Professor McGonagall looked impressed. “I applaud your character, Mr. Potter. I cannot rescind her entire punishment, as several of my colleagues, including the headmaster himself, have had several hours of their day wasted because of this.” He found it hard to keep from giggling at that. “However, if you are truly earnest, I will be willing to rescind the loss of points, but the detention stays.”

 

“Thank you, professor,” he said with a smile.

 

“You are welcome, Mr. Potter.” She turned to the girl at her side. “Is there something you’d like to say to Mr. Potter?”

 

_Hah!_

 

The poor girl looked like her eyes would bulge out of her skull, but Professor McGonagall’s stern face was unrelenting. Swallowing, she slowly turned to face him. “Thank you,” she growled through grit teeth, all the while glaring at him as if hoping he’d spontaneously combust.

 

“You’re very welcome,” he replied, just the epitome of gracious forgiveness.

 

He had to fight very hard to maintain a straight face as he actually heard her grind her teeth.

 

“Well, I suppose one of us had better inform the others that they needn’t look for Mr. Potter any longer,” Professor McGonagall said.

 

“And I had better tell Ms. Clearwater that she doesn’t need to stand watch in the common room any more,” Professor Flitwick agreed.

 

 _Hmm. I guess it was a good call on my part to not simply walk out through the common room then_ , he thought.

 

As the two professors went their separate ways, he found himself standing alone in the entryway with a rather irate Gryffindor girl.

 

“I hope you’re happy,” she growled.

 

“Thank you,” he said brightly, as if she’d just wished him good fortune. Turning, he headed back inside.

 

“That wasn– …!” She took a deep to keep from screaming at him. “This isn’t fair! You did something wrong, not me! And I’m the one being punished?!”

 

“Well, to be fair, most would consider tatttling to be something wrong, but whatever,” he said. “The point is, those adults you revere so much are not infallible. Not your teachers, not your parents, not the authors of the books you love. This whole thing just proves that.”

 

“Oh, so you expect me to believe that all of this was just supposed to be some big lesson, is that it?!” she almost snarled.

 

“Not really. It just happens to make my point pretty well,” he candidly replied as they entered the Great Hall, where dinner was just getting underway.

 

“Then why did you do this?” she demanded.

 

“Well, for one thing, because it was funny.” Her mouth actually dropped open in outrage at that. “But for another, you kinda backed me into a corner. I did warn you not to tell, you know. Once you did, it was pretty much inevitable that either you would get in trouble or I would. Besides, all you got was one lousy detention, which is way less than I would have been looking at. And I did ask them not to punish you at all, if you’ll remember. So, do you have something you want to say to me for that?”

 

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “How about ‘I hate you’?”

 

“‘Atta girl,” he said with a grin.

 

With an audible snarl, she turned and stalked over to the Gryffindor table.

 

“Till next time!” he called after her, which led to her visibly clenching her fists. Snickering, he turned and headed over to the Slytherin table to sit with the girls.

 

“Making friends, are we?” Daphne asked, observant as ever.

 

“Of course I am. I’m a very likable person, after all,” he replied.

 

Blaise gave an indelicate snort at that.

 

“Sinuses?” he wryly asked.

 

“No. Bullshit,” she answered.

 

“Blaise!” Daphne scolded while Tracey ended up spewing half her goblet of pumpkin juice as she burst into laughter.

 

“You’re hilarious, Blaise,” he informed her in a desert-dry tone while handing the dripping and cackling redhead a napkin.

 

“But perhaps you’d be better off saving your wit for somewhere else besides the table?” Daphne suggested, nodding to the giggling girl busy drying herself off.

 

“Gah! Id cabe oud uh by doze,” Tracey complained while pinching her nose.

 

“Charming,” Daphne said before sighing and shaking her head. “I should start eating in the kitchens,” she muttered in exasperation.

 

“I suppose telling jokes there wouldn’t count as telling them at the table, now would it?” Blaise contemplated aloud, much to Daphne’s further exasperation. “But however would the rest of the school react if we were to drag Mr. Likable here away to hide him in the kitchens?”

 

“I somehow suspect they’d manage,” Daphne answered. “Well, once the majority of them had stopped celebrating, that is,” she continued with a subtle smirk.

 

“I want you to know that your friendship and support mean a great deal to me,” he told them both in utter deadpan. “Truly.”

 

“Ah, don’t listen to ‘em,” Tracey told him, finally able to speak clearly. “It doesn’t matter if you’re not likable. We like you plenty!” She finished by wrapping herself tightly around his arm in a hug.

 

“‘Plenty’ is a very strong word,” Blaise contested.

 

“As is ‘like’,” Daphne joined in.

 

“Well, at least someone is on my side,” he cheerfully replied, grabbing another napkin and delicately wiping off some of the leftover juice on the girl’s cheek. The rest, his uniform was sopping up very nicely. She beamed up at him.

 

However, as he moved on to eating, he noticed that she wasn’t letting go. “Trace?”

 

“Mm?” she asked from where her head rested on his shoulder, apparently ready to take a nap right there at the table.

 

“Food,” he pointed out to her, gesturing to the table in front of her, though this was was rather pointless given her closed eyes.

 

“Mm,” she agreed.

 

“You’re going to need to use your hands to eat,” he helpfully explained. “That will mean letting go of my arm. And waking up.”

 

“But I’m tired,” she complained weakly. “It’s been a long day. There’s been classes and notes and homework and devil quills …” Daphne cocked her head curiously at that, but Blaise’s eyes took on a slightly knowing glint.

 

“But food,” he argued.

 

“Mm,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Feed me.”

 

“Come again?” he asked.

 

“Feed me,” she repeated sleepily from his shoulder.

 

He blinked. “I will not feed you,” he informed her.

 

“But I stuck up for you,” she whined.

 

“And that was appreciated,” he replied.

 

“Then feed me,” she said, still in her sleepy yet insistent tone.

 

“Yeah, that’s definitely not happening,” he told her, taking a bite of his own food.

 

“ _Haaaarryyyy_ ,” she whined pitifully.

 

He turned to their spectators. “Is she serious right now?”

 

“She doesn’t really have that function,” Daphne informed him. “But for her, though … yeah.”

 

He turned a disbelieving gaze over to Blaise. “Hey, why do you think she always sits across from us?” she rhetorically asked, taking a clearly smug bite of her own dinner while watching his struggle. “It’s right up there with our ‘Do not give Tracey sugar’ rule and our ‘Stay out of arm’s reach of a sleepy Tracey at all costs’ rule.”

 

Turning back to the half-sleeping girl on his shoulder, he saw that she had opened her mouth for her first bite, still with her eyes closed, but clearly expecting him to cave.

 

 _Don’t you fucking dare_ , he warned himself as he eyed his plate.

 

He speared a piece of chicken on his fork and prepared to take a bite, but he hesitated.

 

 _If you do this, I will officially lose all respect for you,_ he threatened himself even more heatedly as he glanced at the pathetically cute girl on his shoulder.

 

 _Stand strong, man! Don’t give in!_ he further encouraged himself as he glanced back and forth from the girl on his shoulder to the food on his fork.

 

With one quiet whine from Tracey, he was done. Filled with shame, he gently fed her the bite of chicken. Still with her eyes closed, she gave a sleepy yet deeply pleased smile as she chewed.

 

 _I hate you_ , he informed himself.

 

“Not a damn word,” he growled at the girls across from him. Apparently, though, they didn’t need words, as Daphne simply gave him the slowest, most sarcastic clap he had ever heard while smiling smugly at him in probably the most open display of emotion he had yet seen from her.

 

Blaise, meanwhile, decided to take it a step further and made a loud whip-crack sound while smirking at him.

 

He narrowed his eyes at her. _Alright then, Zabini. See how you enjoy your dinner now_. He continued eating, though pausing every other bite to feed the ridiculous girl on his shoulder, who quietly hummed in sleepy delight every time. Blaise, however, was afforded no such luxury. Every time she went to take a bite, she found her food mysteriously missing from her fork and back on her plate as if it had never been touched. Meanwhile, he simply kept on with his/their dinner, though with with his mind on the wand sheathed along his forearm and with an overly innocent expression on his face.

 

The final straw for Blaise was apparently when she tried to take a drink only for the juice in her goblet to completely disappear and reappear in the pitcher. She stared at her empty goblet in frustrated confusion.

 

 _It looks like my experiments this afternoon are paying off_ , he noted in satisfaction.

 

“Problems, Blaise?” he asked innocently before drinking from his own goblet.

 

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.

 

“I’m thirsty,” Tracey softly spoke up.

 

“Okay, I am definitely drawing the line there,” he insisted.

 

“Pleeeeease?” she asked.

 

“No.”

 

“Hey, just a really crazy question here,” Blaise interrupted, this time almost glaring at him, “but if I were to, say, apologize for my little sound effect, do you think my food would stop vanishing off my fork?” Daphne’s eyebrows raised.

 

“Stranger things have happened,” he answered noncommittally.

 

“Well, then, I’m _very_ sorry,” she said dryly.

 

“Thank you,” he replied.

 

This time, when she went to take a bite, he waited until the food was inside her mouth to make it disappear.

 

She gave him an outraged look.

 

“Of course, an insincere apology might not count,” he replied smugly, feeding Tracey another bite of chicken.

 

“Oh, how silly of me,” she retorted. “I must have misspoken. What I _clearly_ meant to say was that I, Lady Blaise of House Zabini, offer my deepest apologies to the ever gracious and _eminently_ likable Lord Harry of House Potter for my shameful behavior earlier this very fine evening.”

 

“And your apology is most happily accepted, Lady Blaise of House Zabini,” he responded in an equally sarcastic and pompous manner.

 

Slowly and suspiciously, Blaise loaded up her fork again, never breaking eye contact as she took a bite and began to chew. It was only after she swallowed that she finally started to relax.

 

Meanwhile, Daphne stared at both of them, clearly filing away everything that was happening.

 

“I’m still thirsty,” Tracey complained once more.

 

“Get used to it, sister,” he said.

 

* * *

 

“ _Alohamora_!”

 

“What are you doing, Daphne?” Blaise asked later that evening.

 

“What I am doing, Blaise, is practicing,” Daphne replied without breaking her concentration. “ _Alohamora_!”

 

“We haven’t even been taught that spell, yet,” Blaise argued from her now customary spot on Daphne’s bed.

 

“So we are supposed to wait and learn only at the snail’s pace provided by the teachers? I think not. Once you manage the visualization and concentration required, spellcasting is largely memorization of wand movements and incantations. There is no reason not to learn what spells we can on our own. _Alohamora_!” Her wandtip gave off a soft blue light, indicative of at least a moderately successful cast.

 

“Yeah, but that sounds like a lot of work,” Blaise argued, mostly just to rile up Daphne, though she sadly seemed too focused to rise to the bait for once. She needed backup. “Don’t you think so, Tracey?”

 

A gentle snore answered her.

 

“Tracey,” Blaise prompted, poking the comatose girl laying next to her.

 

“Wuzzappenin’?” the girl slurred, sitting up.

 

“Say ‘yes,’ Tracey,” Blaise told her.

 

“Yes, Tracey,” her sleepy friend repeated, rubbing her eyes.

 

Blaise turned back to Daphne. “See? Tracey agrees with me.”

 

Daphne simply rolled her eyes and turned to another page in her textbook.

 

“I may need to go do the sleeps,” Tracey coherently decided, slowly blinking at the rest of the room.

 

“There’s a chance,” Blaise agreed. “I mean, it’s only, like, nine o’ clock, but sure, you trundle off to bed, grandma.”

 

“Okay then. Night night,” Tracey sleepily replied, too out of it to really pick up on her sarcasm.

 

“ _Alohamora_!” Daphne continued with her casting as Tracey shuffled off to her own room.

 

“This is boring,” Blaise interrupted.

 

“You are welcome to take out your own wand and join me, Blaise. These spells would be useful to you as well.”

 

“I don’t have my wand. I left it in my room,” Blaise said.

 

Daphne stopped casting and looked at her in surprise and confusion. “Why on earth would you ever not have your wand on your person?”

 

“Cause if I don’t, then I don’t have to worry about being roped into one of your practice sessions,” she replied with a proud smile.

 

She snickered as Daphne sighed in exasperation and turned back to her textbook. However, she didn’t get much farther than that, as a shrill, terrified scream echoed across the hall outside.

 

Shooting each other a shocked look, they both darted out the door to Tracey’s room. They barely reached her door before it flew open and a tiny auburn-haired mass leaped into Blaise’s arms.

 

“Tracey, what is it?!” Daphne asked in alarm, as the babbling girl was practically incoherent. Instead, she simply raised a shaking hand to point towards her bedroom, and the bed inside it. At this point, several other girls from their year had drifted into the hall, curious what the screaming was about. Daphne ignored them, however. Drawing her wand, she slowly advanced into her friend’s room as if entering an enemy camp. However, she didn’t see an attacker lying in wait, or really anything that would explain her friend’s terror.

 

“Over there,” Tracey whispered hoarsely, pointing towards the pillow on her bed, still clutching a slightly staggering Blaise.

 

Daphne prowled over to the bed, but still didn’t see anything that would warrant this reaction. However, she did see one thing out of place lying on the girl’s pillow. She gently picked it up.

 

“A quill?” she asked, confused.

 

“Eep!” Tracey cried, trying to climb higher onto Blaise’s shoulders as if the floor was covered with spiders, all the while staring in horror at the mundane object in Daphne’s hand.

 

“Care to explain, Tracey?” Daphne asked, still utterly lost.

 

“ _It’s evil_ ,” she whispered emphatically.

 

Daphne stared at her. “It’s a quill.”

 

“ _Eeeeviiiillll_ ,” she whispered, undeterred.

 

Blaise ignored her spasming back and awkwardly turned to face her housemates in the hall. “Tracey _really_ doesn’t like anything that reminds her of homework.”

 

Many of the girls seemed to think that reasonable, as they nodded understandingly and returned to their rooms.

 

Daphne, on the other hand, seemed to think Tracey’s reaction was anything but reasonable. “Alright, you know what, I’m not even going to ask why you seem to think your quill is evil–”

 

“Because it is!” Tracey insisted.

 

“–nor am I going to ask how it ended up on your pillow,” Daphne continued.

 

Blaise suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.

 

“However, if I get rid of it, will you calm down?” Daphne asked.

 

“Burn it,” Tracey insisted, still staring wide-eyed at the quill.

 

Daphne sighed. “Fine. If I burn the quill, will you be alright?”

 

“Mostly,” Tracey semi-agreed.

 

“Alright then,” Daphne replied, stepping out of the room to perform exorcism-by-fire on a quill.

 

Tracey didn’t climb down until she was well out of sight. By that point, Blaise needed to lean against a wall to relieve the pain in her spine.

 

“There. It’s done,” Daphne told them as she returned from the common room. “Are you okay now?”

 

“Almost,” Tracey hedged, staring at Daphne.

 

Daphne apparently picked up where she was going with that. “No.”

 

“Yes,” Tracey disagreed.

 

“No!”

 

“But I’m still scared,” Tracey whined, glancing at her door in clear terror.

 

Daphne groaned and lowered her head, clearly relenting.

 

For the second time that night, Blaise found cause for the whip-crack sound effect.

 

“Can it, Zabini!” Daphne snapped with a glare before a wicked smile spread across her face. “Fine, Tracey. I’ll agree, but on one condition.” The smug stare she was leveling at Blaise left little to the imagination regarding what that condition was.

 

“No,” Blaise imitated Daphne.

 

“Yes!” Tracey exclaimed in glee, wrapping herself tightly around Blaise’s arm and dragging her to Daphne’s room.

 

“Dammit,” Blaise muttered.

 

And that was how she found herself stuffed into Daphne’s bed alongside Tracey and Daphne herself, despite the fact that those beds were in no way built for three. Luckily, Tracey had an answer for that problem, namely, laying half on top of Daphne. The tiny redhead was even more aggressive of a cuddler in her sleep than she was awake, which said a lot. Unfortunately, she was also a pretty obnoxious sleeper, so it wasn’t long before she turned over and started half-smothering Blaise instead.

 

“Comfortable, Blaise?” Daphne asked in a smug, saccharine-sweet voice, though Blaise almost couldn’t hear her over Tracey snoring in her ear. That didn’t stop her from responding, though.

 

“Shut it, Greengrass,” she muttered, to which Daphne responded with a chuckle.

 

 _Well, that was actually a pretty good prank, even if I ended up caught in it myself_ , Blaise thought to herself while spitting Tracey’s hair out of her mouth. _The next one, though … that one’s going to be mine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope you all like the new chapter :) Honestly, I can't believe this thing is at almost 100,000 words already with it only having reached the end of the first day of classes. Definitely not my intention there. However, with the next chapter, I'm hoping to be able to pick up the story’s pace a bit, so at least there's that. And thank you all for bearing with me on this :)


	11. Snape. Snape. Seeeverus Snape.

“Slept well, did we?” he asked with a grin.

  


“Oh yeah, I slept great!” Tracey exuberantly responded as she piled her plate full of bacon. Meanwhile, Daphne and Blaise, who looked like they had just come from a raccoon appreciation convention given the massive dark circles under their eyes, simply glared weakly at him as they groggily filled their own plates.

  


He chuckled at them as he removed the bacon from Tracey’s plate and returned it to his own. He pointedly ignored her look of hurt and indignation.

  


“So, are you looking forward to your classes, today? Ready to start learning?” he asked chipperly, just to nettle the nearly zombified girls.

  


“Hngh,” Blaise responded, tiredly spearing a sausage link on her fork while also taking progressively longer and longer to open her reddened eyes again every time she blinked.

  


“Ditto,” Daphne agreed, wavering slightly in her seat.

  


“Well, it’s such a shame that you don’t have my schedule today,” he continued, still with more enthusiasm than anyone should reasonably have at that hour of the morning. “You would definitely be excited then!”

  


“What’ve you got?” Tracey asked semi-intelligibly through a mouthful of food.

  


“Well, first, I’ve got Herbology, so I get to work outside and learn about magical plants and stuff, which sounds awesome,” he began, actually looking forward to breaking from the desk-sitting routine of all his other classes, on top of actually finding the concept of magical plants intriguing. “Then, I’ve got potions, which I’m really looking forward to.” After all, he had seen some of the potions that could be made, and some of them were as interesting as they were weird, and he was really looking forward to learning not only how to make things like that, but also learning how certain recipes and preparation methods managed to extract those kinds of effects, especially since potions seemed to make use of mundane, non-magical plants and ingredients as often as magical ones.

  


“Then, I’ve got History of Magic, which has got to be great. I mean, getting to learn about how magic-use developed and how it came to become what it is today is bound to be fascinating.”

  


The girls all stared at him silently after he finished.

  


“What?” he asked in confusion.

  


As one, all three burst into hysterical laughter.

  


He waited in patient confusion for them to calm down and catch their breath. Daphne, though, kept breaking out in mini giggles even after settling down, which surprised him.

  


“Care to let me in on the joke?” he asked.

  


“Well … I think you’ll find those classes to be just a tad bit different than you’re expecting,” Daphne explained, still fighting giggles.

  


“What Daphne’s trying to say,” a snickering Blaise chimed in, “is that Herbology blows, and there are no words to describe the horror that is History of Magic.”

  


Tracey nodded in emphatic agreement.

  


“No,” he countered in disbelief. “… Really?”

  


“Yup,” Blaise affirmed.

  


Tracey gave a thumbs down and blew a raspberry, confirming their assessment in her own unique way.

  


“We haven’t had Potions yet, since we have that with you, but the professor is our head of house,” Daphne explained, “and he … is less than fond of members of other houses. To put it lightly.”

  


“Or members of his own house,” Blaise added. “Or students,” she continued listing. “Or teaching … or interacting with other humans … or just human beings in general …”

  


“He’s notoriously less than pleasant,” Daphne interrupted, summing up Blaise’s rambling list fairly well.

  


“Then it sounds like we’re in for a treat later,” he dryly predicted.

  


“Indeed,” Daphne sarcastically agreed.

  


“Well, on that note, I’m off to Herbology,” he said, gathering up his things and stealing Tracey’s toast. By her outraged expression, she was not a particular fan of karmic retribution.

  


“Have fun,” Blaise told him with a smirk.

  


He felt a bit of nervous anguish as he pondered their words.

  


_Herbology doesn’t really blow … does it?_

  


* * *

  


It did.

  


* * *

  


Dirt stained and thoroughly disappointed, he trudged through the doors to the potions classroom. Ignoring the jars of pickled dead things lining the walls, the chilled, almost misty feel to the room, and the numerous small cauldrons sitting on the desks, he simply dragged himself over to the girls and plopped down onto the stool next to Tracey.

  


“Did you have fun in Herbology?” Daphne asked in an innocent tone, though the wicked glint to her eyes undermined it a bit.

  


“Hngh,” he quoted Blaise from earlier.

  


“As I figured,” Daphne responded in satisfaction before turning back to the front of the class.

  


Tracey, meanwhile, simply patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. “Blegh classes are just terrible, aren’t they?”

  


“Oh, so terrible, Trace,” he agreed.

  


Once he was finally able to shrug off the after-effects of such intense boredom, however, he was able to really start paying attention to the classroom. Unlike the others, this class was not divided along rows of desks. Instead, the room was sprinkled with two-person island desks, atop which were cauldrons, vials, and various other potion-making tools. This meant that it was yet another class that couldn’t really be divided along house lines like most of the others had been.

  


_Hmm. Maybe this teacher isn’t such a snob about houses as they claimed he is, if this is how his classroom is set up_ , he optimistically thought.

  


With a bang, the door to the room slammed open, followed by the hook-nosed professor he saw talking with Headmaster Lemon yesterday striding towards the front of the room, his robes billowing behind him dramatically.

  


_Oh, it’s this guy? Well, this ought to be good_.

  


“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class,” he brusquely announced as he reached the head of the classroom.

  


_Oh, thank god. All that Pig Latin was starting to give me a headache._

  


“As such,” the hook-nosed professor continued, now in a slow, scintillating whisper, “I hardly expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.”

  


He snorted. _This guy should give inspirational speeches for a living._

  


“After all, precious few can truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes …”

  


He raised his eyebrow. _Is this erotica? Because it’s starting to make me feel slightly dirty_.

  


“… the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins …”

  


_Eww._

  


“… bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses …”

  


_Is this the whole class?_

  


“However, for those … select few … who possess the predisposition,” the professor continued, looking pointedly at the blonde-haired Captain Courageous, where he sat next to one of his bodyguards near the front of the class, “I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper … in death.”

  


_I am dubious of this claim_ , he thought. _Of course, if you had said that you could teach us to pickle victory or secrete success or something, well, that would have had me too excited to question it. As for the whole entrance, though, you get points for theatricality in your dramatic monologue. Still more points for the extra flair in your inexplicably billowing robes as you entered the classroom. However, you didn’t use any flashy magic to_ really _make your mark like the other professors. Six out of ten_.

  


Tracey started giggling uncontrollably next to him, which clued him in to the fact that he had evidently said some of that out loud. _I’ve really got to get a handle on that_ , he scolded himself.

  


Thankfully, only Tracey seemed to have heard him. _Un_ fortunately, her giggling cut through the hushed silence of the classroom and drew the professor’s attention towards their table. Upon laying eyes on him, though, the professor’s attention immediately narrowed onto him and him alone.

  


_Oh, here we go_.

  


“Ah, Mister Potter,” he drawled with the intimidating air of a predator that had just found its prey caught in a trap. “Our … new … _celebrity_.”

  


“Hi there. Always nice to meet a fan,” he happily responded with the good-humored air of a patient star dealing with an admirer who was too nervous to ask for an autograph.

  


Given the stunned, terrified silence that followed, he apparently went off script with that.

  


“Harry …,” Daphne whispered in horror, “… _nooo_.”

  


Even the dour Professor Snape stared at him with widened eyes, apparently astounded that he would have the gall to respond as he did. Quickly, though, that look was taken over by an expression of condescending satisfaction, as if he had just confirmed the man’s thoughts about him.

  


_Imagine that_.

  


“Yes,” Snape hissed, his eyes glittering darkly, “I am sure that it is.” His venomous glare was intense enough to make Tracey gulp just from her mere proximity to its target, him. “However, I wonder if you have the talent to match your fame. Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

  


“I don’t know … a new and improved formula for shampoo?” he blithely answered.

  


The class echoed with hisses of in-drawn breaths as terrified students suddenly found their gaze bouncing back and forth from their clearly suicidal classmate and the greasy-haired professor. Daphne, meanwhile, actually burst into a coughing fit as she nearly tried to swallow her tongue in shock at his answer.

  


“Wrong,” the professor hissed, his gaze invoking images of a guillotine. “Let us try again, though, shall we? Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

  


“A potions cupboard, probably.”

  


Tracey started trying to subtly scoot her stool farther away from him.

  


“And what is the difference between monkswood and wolfsbane?”

  


“‘Monkswood’ has an ‘M’ in it.”

  


With that answer, he faintly heard Daphne mutter under her breath, “Oh. My. _God!_ ”

  


“Yes,” Snape intoned, still staring at him with barely disguised loathing, “you have a remarkable gift for spelling. It is a shame that this talent does not extend to reading your textbooks, now isn’t it?” The professor’s lips twisted into an almost satisfied sneer. “For your information, asphodel and wormwood combine to make a sleeping potion so powerful, it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and it will save you from most poisons.”

  


Here, his face twisted into clear condescension. “And yes, Mr. Potter, it can be found in most potions cupboards.”

  


_Called it!_

  


“As for monkswood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.”

  


_So I was technically right there, too. Two out of three!_

  


The professor cast a look over the rest of the class. “I suggest,” he whispered threateningly, “that you all write. That. Down.”

  


The clearly uncomfortable and terrified students scrambled to grab their parchments and quills to do exactly that.

  


“As for you, Mr. Potter,” Snape continued, displaying a remarkably—and disturbingly—single-minded focus on him, “fifteen points will be taken from Ravenclaw House for your cheek.”

  


Several blue-and-bronze-clad students gasped in horror at this pronouncement.

  


He, on the other hand, turned to Tracey. “Wait, I have something on my face?” he asked his deskmate as he rubbed at his cheek, deliberately misinterpreting the professor.

  


The classroom echoed with a smack of flesh against flesh as Blaise face-palmed at his response while Tracey stared aghast at the boy actively making things worse. Daphne, meanwhile, simply laid her head on her desk with a thump before softly, yet repeatedly, banging it on the tabletop.

  


“Oh, was I unclear?” Professor Snape asked with a hiss. “Allow me to repeat myself: _twenty_ points will be taken from Ravenclaw House for your utter disrespect and complete idiocy.”

  


“Oh,” he responded, as if finally understanding. “Okay, that’s fair.”

  


“Is it?!” the volatile professor snapped. “Clearly I did not take enough, then! Let’s try thirty points!”

  


He blinked at the professor. “Um … that’s _un_ fair?” he asked mildly, not sure what the teacher wanted him to say, since agreeing with him only seemed to incense him further.

  


“That is more like it,” the teacher growled in satisfaction.

  


_So, this teacher prefers people to disagree with him? Alright, noted_.

  


As the class progressed, he learned a great many other things, as well. For instance, he learned that the first potion they would be making was a cure for boils. He also learned that the professor’s entire teaching process began and ended at, “The instructions are on the board. You have one hour. Get started.”

  


That was it. No explanation of the procedure. No discussion of how the various, largely mundane ingredients produced the magical effect. Not even a brief mention of proper techniques for handling the tools and ingredients. Totally not a major safety hazard, that.

  


He also learned that the class was not arranged into island desks rather than rows of desks so that the students would be unable to divide themselves along house lines. It was solely so the professor could freely skulk from table to table to breathe down each and every student’s neck as they struggled to follow the directions under the additional stress of their “teacher” clearly waiting for them to fail.

  


More importantly, though, he learned that neither he nor his partner Tracey had any measurable talent in potion-making.

  


“Hey, Trace? Was it the dried nettles you added, or the crushed snake fangs?”

  


“Um …,” she responded, giving the question a great deal of thought, “… yes.”

  


“Okay, good. Just so long as we’re clear,” he replied with an amused snort, deciding to just flip a mental coin and pick the crushed snake fangs to add himself.

  


Disappointingly, their potion did not end up with the pastel-green shade it was supposed to have. Though, the color of the sparks it started violently emitting by the end was fairly close.

  


“EVERYONE HIT THE DIRT!” he bellowed as he tackled Tracey to the floor.

  


They barely hit the ground before their hissing and sparking potion detonated with a massive bang that sent cauldron shrapnel flying in every direction, some of which shattered the creepy-ass jars of floating dead things along the walls, while still others simply embedded themselves in tables or ricocheted off other cauldrons with loud “twangs.”

  


As the smoke cleared, terrified students slowly began poking their heads over the tops of their own desks to see if it was safe. Meanwhile, he rolled off of Tracey and began coughing his lungs clear.

  


“You know, Tracey,” he rasped, “I think we might have actually made a mistake or two when we were making that potion.”

  


Tracey groaned and sat up. “Nah, it must have been something with the cauldron,” she coughed. “I had the same thing happen once when I was making pancakes for my mom, and that was because there was something wrong with the skillet. At least, I think there was.”

  


“Enough!” Professor Snape barked as he emerged from behind his own desk. “I suppose you thought it would be funny to disrupt my class and endanger your classmates, did you, Potter? That’s another ten points you’ve just lost Ravenclaw!”

  


“That is … also unfair?” he responded, testing his previous theory that the professor preferred others to disagree with him.

  


This was apparently still true, given how he simply allowed them to recover their belongings from the wreckage of their desk without taking more points away. Thankfully, class was over, so that was all they needed to do. Plus, it meant that he was able to call it quits at only losing Ravenclaw House forty points in one class instead of reaching for fifty.

  


Given the way his fellow ravens glared at him as they streamed out the door, they did not appreciate this silver lining all that much.

  


Of course, they weren’t the only unhappy classmates, as Daphne revealed when she confronted him in the hallway.

  


“Okay, first things first, you and Tracey are officially no longer allowed to make potions together!” she declared while glaring at them both and fingering the still smoldering hole in her book bag. Blaise’s emphatic nod indicated her own agreement with this rule.

  


“Aww, man,” Tracey quietly complained.

  


“Second,” Daphne continued, now focused solely on him, “what on earth is wrong with you?!”

  


“How much time you got?” he asked wryly.

  


Blaise snorted at his response.

  


Daphne, however, was not amused. “Why were you deliberately provoking Professor Snape?! Do you have a death wish? Are you really _that_ determined to piss off people who have that much power to make your life a living nightmare?”

  


“Boy, there’s a lot of questions there. Let’s see … I don’t _think_ I have a death wish,” he answered in a ridiculously uncertain tone. “As for making Snape hate me, well, there’s wasn’t much I was going to be able to do to change that. Apparently, he already did before I even stepped foot in his classroom.”

  


“Is that so?” Daphne replied, still glaring at him. “And why do you think that?”

  


“Because of some stuff I heard him say to the headmaster,” he said with a shrug.

  


Daphne stared at him for a moment before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “Harry.”

  


“Daphne,” he copied.

  


“Please tell me you haven’t been spying on the head of Slytherin House and the Headmaster of Hogwarts,” she quietly requested, still with her eyes closed.

  


He paused to think. “Um … well, that depends. How exactly are you defining ‘spying’ here?”

  


Daphne took another deep breath to remain calm. “Observing a person or persons without their knowledge and gaining information they would not wish you to possess in the process.”

  


“Hmm,” he answered thoughtfully. “I don’t really like that definition. Can we add on ‘with the _intent_ to gain information they would not wish you to possess’? I could say ‘no’ then.”

  


“Oh my god,” Daphne muttered while reaching up and rubbing at her temples. Blaise and Tracey, meanwhile, were more interested in trying to stifle their laughter so they didn’t draw her ire onto themselves. “Okay, ignoring how suicidally idiotic it is to risk spying on people who are as capable of single-handedly ruining your life as those two–”

  


“ _Debatably_ spying!” he pedantically interrupted. “And I prefer the term ‘stupidly reckless’.”

  


“ _Ignoring that,_ ” she repeated, this time in a near yell while Blaise and Tracey had to actually hold onto each other to keep from falling, they were silently laughing so hard, “why in the world would finding out that Professor Snape already dislikes you _make you want to aggravate him even further_?!”

  


“Because if someone’s going to hate me, I damn well want it to be for the right reasons,” he declared.

  


Given Daphne’s open-mouthed stare, though, he needed to explain that a bit further. “Look, from what I could tell, he has some serious issues with my father, and that was evidently enough for him to hate me just by extension even before ever meeting me. And that’s just ridiculous.” Daphne slowly nodded, apparently following along so far, as were Blaise and Tracey, who had finally stopped laughing.

  


“I mean, there are just so many better reasons to hate me!” he continued. “There’s my passion for pranks and chaos, for one thing. Then, there’s my unabiding love for lame puns. On top of that, there’s my overall fondness for aggravating people in general. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg! All of that, and someone’s going to hate me simply because of who one of my parents happened to be? That’s just insulting!”

  


Daphne stared at him in a clear loss for words to express just how little logic she felt his argument made.

  


“You know, that actually makes sense,” Blaise spoke up, nodding sagely.

  


Daphne whipped her head to face her. “No! It doesn’t! It _really_ doesn’t! Do not encourage this, Blaise!”

  


“Oh, please. As if a lack of encouragement would slow me down,” he pointed out to Daphne, to which Blaise nodded again, this time with Tracey joining in.

  


Daphne groaned and hung her head, once more rubbing at her temples. “You know, I’m starting to wonder whether it isn’t more trouble than it’s worth to be spending time with you.”

  


“It probably is,” he said understandingly. “Would it help if I used another bout of wandless magic around you again?” he asked helpfully.

  


Blaise barked out a loud laugh in surprise at the blunt question while Tracey came over with another fit of the giggles. Daphne, on the other hand, stared at him disbelievingly, completely at a loss for how to respond to something like that being stated so overtly.

  


“Tha– … you don– … you’re not supposed to just say something like that out loud!” she replied, more flustered and off balance than he had ever seen her. “The point of that kind of thing is subtlety! It’s about quiet maneuverings and displays of power! You don’t just … blurt that out!”

  


“Why not?” he asked, more than a little amused at seeing the normally composed girl so confused and off kilter.

  


“That … that’s just not how it works! This was all supposed to be about generating intrigue and making me suspect you had more power than you should and that it would be smart for me to ally myself with you!”

  


“But I _do_ have more power than I should, and it _is_ smart for you to ally yourself with me,” he answered in affected innocent confusion, though it was hard to keep his mirth from bubbling over.

  


“But you don’t _say_ that! It’s all supposed to be unspoken! Implied, but never stated outright! That’s just how it goes!”

  


She was not responding well to her expectations being subverted so dramatically here.

  


“Oh,” he said, as if only now understanding. “Would you like me to go back to just quietly displaying that power without talking about it, then?”

  


Daphne’s jaw worked up and down while her hands lifted as if torn between being thrown up in exasperated surrender and trying to strangle him. Instead, she elected to walk over to a nearby wall and start repeatedly banging her forehead against it.

  


While a still giggling Tracey went over to save the distraught blonde from herself, Blaise merely looked at him with an open display of awe and pure delight on her face.

  


“You … are awesome,” she breathed, looking back and forth between him and the girl she so loved to fluster, but had never been able to affect to this degree. “I hereby declare us friends for life,” she pronounced, raising her hand for a high-five, which he happily gave.

  


“Ditto!” Tracey laughed as she returned with Daphne half-supported by her arm. The frazzled blonde had a visible red mark on her forehead, but her eyes actually seemed clearer now.

  


“I, on the other hand, hate you far too much at this moment to make any such declaration,” Daphne informed him with a glare.

  


In response, he simply reached out and gently touched her bruised forehead, using magic from the monastery to make the injury fade away as if it had never been.

  


Blaise and Tracey stared wide-eyed at the display, while a similarly stunned Daphne gently touched the former red spot on her forehead.

  


“Wait, so do we talk about this, or do we not talk about this? I’m still a bit confused on this point,” he said.

  


Once again, he got Daphne’s eye to start twitching due to something he said, which he considered a win. This time, though, she simply turned and started walking away.

  


“We _will_ be talking about this,” she finally called back over her shoulder, “but not at this moment. Right now, I’m going to go to lunch, I’m going to eat an unreasonable amount of food, and I’m going to avoid looking at your stupid face, because if I don’t, I might just throw something at it.”

  


“Like I said,” Blaise nodded at Tracey to follow Daphne, “awesome.”

  


He looked at the dark-skinned girl in surprise when she stayed behind with him. “You’re not going with them?” he asked, gesturing towards the blonde stomping off and the redhead scampering after her.

  


“Nope!” she happily replied, threading her arm through one of his and leading him towards the Great Hall for lunch. “Like I said: friends for life! And Tracey’s got Daph covered for now.”

  


“I see,” he said, continuing to walk arm in arm with her towards the Great Hall.

  


“So … you have ‘more power than you should’, huh?” she asked, unable to resist.

  


He snorted. “It’s not really that big a thing. I’ve just had some training in a different style of magic before coming here.”

  


“A better style of magic?” she inquired curiously.

  


He shook his head. “Not entirely. I mean, it’s definitely got its strengths, don’t get me wrong, but so does wizarding magic, as far as I can tell. I’ve seen you guys do things with your magic that I had never seen before, just like the people who raised me can do things I doubt a wizard could manage.”

  


“Well, I’m just going to ignore the obvious segue to ask about who raised you, since I think Daphne might actually kill me if I found out about that before her,” Blaise said wryly.

  


“I thought you liked antagonizing her?” he asked with a grin.

  


“Antagonizing her? Yes. Committing suicide by Greengrass? Not so much.”

  


He chuckled.

  


“And speaking of antagonizing …,” she continued, “you know that Professor Snape is going to be doing his absolute best to make your life a living nightmare from here on out, right?”

  


“Hey, two can play at that game,” he answered cryptically as they entered the Great Hall.

  


She eyed him in a mix of suspicion and eagerness. “Care to explain?”

  


On their way towards a table, he spotted the bushy-haired Gryffindor girl sitting with a half-forgotten plate of food pushed to the side in favor of an array of open books and a massive roll of parchment that she was filling with notes.

  


His grin widened as he felt his mind turn towards the wand sheathed along his forearm once again. “Have you ever heard of ‘The Marauders’?” he asked Blaise while subtly casting a spell on the other girl’s parchment.

  


“The Marauders?” Blaise asked curiously while the Gryffindor girl turned from her textbook to find her expanse of notes completely blank. “No, can’t say as I have. Why?”

  


He struggled to keep a straight face as the bushy-haired girl began frantically flipping her parchment and upending her textbooks to see if one was laying on her notes. “Because I have it on good authority that the Marauders was a pranking group that was active back in Snape’s day, and seeing it return is apparently one of his worst fears.”

  


They both took a seat at the Ravenclaw table, while Daphne and Tracey sat at the Slytherin table. The blonde was positioned so her back would be towards the Ravenclaws, no doubt a deliberate move on her part.

  


“I take it that you found out about this during your ‘debatable spying’?” Blaise asked him in amusement. However, she had to raise her voice a bit, as a keening wail of frustration and despair echoed across the hall, originating from the Gryffindor table and one currently noteless girl.

  


“Maybe,” he answered her ambiguously, now pointedly ignoring the distressed Gryffindor, and the numerous other students that were eyeing her in a mixture of concern and wariness. “However, given Snape’s attitude during class, and just in general, I’d say it might be time to see about a Marauder revival, don’t you?”

  


Blaise snorted. “You know, the Marauders sounds like a group of pirates.”

  


“Hey, you don’t have to sell me on the group. I’m already for it. I’m trying to convince _you_ to join,” he rebutted with a grin.

  


Blaise laughed. “Fair enough,” she began, “but before I say ‘yes’ or ‘no’, do you mind explaining one thing?”

  


“Shoot,” he replied.

  


“I get why you’re trying to mess with Snape,” she said, “but is there a particular reason why you’re tormenting that Gryffindor girl over there?” She pointed over her shoulder at the bushy-haired girl, who currently had her head laying defeatedly on her arms amid a slew of books and parchment wreckage.

  


“Ummm … because it’s funny?” he replied honestly while watching the girl finally lift her head off her arms and laboriously begin flipping back through one of her textbooks and picking up her quill to start her notes over.

  


“Well, that seems entirely fair,” Blaise replied while turning in her seat to see what he was going to do to the poor girl now. As for that, he waited until she had begrudgingly rewritten the first section of her notes and had turned back to her textbook, at which point he reversed his charm and made her original notes return to the parchment.

  


This time, when she turned back to her parchment, they got to witness an absolute cavalcade of emotions race across her face, which ranged from joy that her notes were back and she didn’t have to rewrite the whole thing, to frustration that her first section of notes was completely illegible now, since the parts she had just rewritten overlapped the original text, to fury that someone had messed with her notes in the first place.

  


Interestingly enough, that last emotion seemed to be directed unilaterally at two tall, redheaded twins farther down her table, who sat joking and talking animatedly with a large group of people around them.

  


“Who are they?” he asked Blaise, nodding towards the redheads.

  


“The Twins?” she asked, using the term like an infamous title. “They’re pretty notorious pranksters. Third years. Love keeping people confused about which one of them is which.” She turned back to him. “Why? Worried about the competition?”

  


A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Not exactly. In fact, I think I’m going to call them ‘Scape’ and ‘Goat’.”

  


A delighted grin lit up her face as well. “Okay, you can officially count me in.”

  


“And so the Marauders live again,” he replied with a grin, lifting up a goblet.

  


“Glad to be aboard,” she answered with a laugh, clinking his goblet with one of her own.

  


* * *

  


Back in the dungeons, a certain hook-nosed professor suddenly felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

  


* * *

  


“So what about Daphne and Tracey?” he asked. “Do you think they’ll want in on this?”

  


“Tracey? Almost definitely. Daphne? Well, once we convince her that we’re doing this with or without her, she’ll probably agree to join just to try and keep us from doing anything _really_ fun.”

  


“That party pooper,” he complained.

  


“Ugh. You have no idea,” Blaise commiserated. “But before we get to that, do you mind explaining whatever wandless magic you used to mess with the poor, innocent little Gryffindor girl?”

  


“Oh, that wasn’t wandless magic,” he corrected, pulling down his sleeve a bit to show the wand sheathed along his forearm.

  


She seemed confused. “Wait, you can cast a spell with a wand without actually having the wand in your hand?”

  


“Why couldn’t you?” he asked in response. “I mean, so long as you’re still channeling magic through the wand, what difference does it make whether it’s actually clutched in your hand or on your person somewhere else?”

  


“Huh,” Blaise articulately responded. “Wait, what about wand movements and stuff? And you didn’t use an incantation,” she pointed out.

  


“Oh, right, those things,” he replied, having forgotten. “Yeah, those don’t really do anything with me.”

  


Blaise raised an eyebrow at the admission. “Okay, when Daphne finally gets around to talking to you about all this, that’s going to be something you want to keep in mind, because she is _definitely_ going to want to know more about that.”

  


“I’ll make a note of that,” he agreed with a smile. Turning back towards the Slytherin table, he watched Daphne eating her lunch, still while keeping her back to their table. Grinning more widely, he cast the same spell on her goblet. As a result, when she lifted it to drink, she found it empty. Not thinking too much about it, she refilled it with a pitcher.

  


Of course, that ended up backfiring on her when he reversed the charm, resulting in the goblet suddenly trying to hold two goblets’ worth of juice at the same time.

  


The girl yelped and slid down the bench to avoid the sudden overflow from her goblet.

  


“Oh, good, make things worse,” Blaise commented dryly.

  


“That’s what I do,” he happily agreed, turning back to his lunch.

  


Unlike his previous victim, though, Daphne apparently knew exactly who was responsible, as indicated by the roll that bounced off the back of his head.

  


“Wait, I thought she was only going to throw something at my head if she caught sight of my ‘stupid face’?” he asked Blaise, confused.

  


“I guess your face looks so much like the back of your head that she just can’t tell the difference,” Blaise remarked with a smirk.

  


“Rude,” he complained.

  


* * *

  


After lunch was over, he learned that the girls were right about yet another one of his classes.

  


There truly were no words to describe the horror that was History of Magic.

  


* * *

  


Over the next few days, he continued learning things. Namely, that Daphne took quite a while to get over someone messing with her the way he had, as she continued to give him the cold shoulder for the entire rest of the week. On top of that, and true to her word, he did suffer an occasional barrage of objects hurled at his head when he broke her dictum about keeping his “stupid face” out of her line of sight.

  


He, of course, took every opportunity to do exactly that and more, just to make things worse. Come to think of it, that may have had something to do with her grudge lasting as long as it had. At least, that’s what Blaise suggested. Although, since she immediately followed those explanations with encouragement for him to continue pestering her, she couldn’t exactly be called the reasonable party in the whole situation.

  


Tracey merely ensured Daphne had ample ammunition on hand at all times, though she was also constantly scolded by the teachers for her hysterical giggling whenever the blonde used it.

  


And that led them all to Friday afternoon, and their first flying class. Ravenclaw and Slytherin shared the class, and that meant that unless Daphne either loaded up her pockets with ammunition ahead of time or was willing to charge across the field to smack him in the head with a broomstick, there wasn’t anything she could do when he he took up position directly across from her in the line-up.

  


And, of course, subsequently began making faces at her.

  


As her narrowed eyes indicated, she did not appreciate this fact, even if he, Tracey, and Blaise very much did.

  


“Well, look at that,” a drawling voice spoke up. “And here I thought you couldn’t possibly look any stupider.”

  


Malfoy’s comment was met with a chorus of mean-spirited snickers from a group of boys clustered around him on the Slytherin side of the line-up.

  


“Draco,” he said, finally dropping the ridiculous face he had been making at Daphne. “I was just working on my impression of you. Did you like it? I know, it needs some work. I still need to add on a nasally ‘My father will hear about this!’ and a healthy amount of cowering behind a pair of robed trolls, but still, I think it’s a start.”

  


This time, it wasn’t Malfoy’s sycophants who laughed.

  


“Who’s cowering? I’m not!” Malfoy bragged with a smug expression, spreading his arms wide as if challenging him to come over and face him.

  


“He said from twenty feet away while surrounded by lackeys A through M,” he dryly narrated.

  


Malfoy glared venomously, but then regained his smug look. “At least I _have_ friends. Look at you, Potter. An outsider in your own house, without a single Ravenclaw at your side.”

  


“Oh, I have friends,” he pointed out, looking over at the three Slytherin girls. Daphne’s face looked like even more of a frozen mask than ever as she watched the confrontation, though he could still see a look of concern in her blue eyes. Blaise, on the other hand, simply grinned as he named them his friends, and Tracey shot him a pair of thumbs up.

  


“Oh, right, the traitors,” he sneered. “How could I have forgotten about them?”

  


His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at the blonde ponce. “Careful, Draco,” he warned, dropping his lighthearted tone for one that was as hard and cool as a steel blade. “You wouldn’t want a repeat of our meeting on the train, would you? I’m not sure your reputation could survive everyone seeing that. Especially since I won’t be focusing on your bodyguards this time.”

  


The field was suddenly filled with whispers as students began asking each other what he was talking about and guessing at what might have happened during that meeting. Malfoy’s gaze ran over all his whispering classmates, many of whom were now staring back at him. When Malfoy’s gaze turned back to him, hate was practically dripping from his eyes.

  


“Good afternoon, class!” a woman’s voice cut across the pitch before any more words could be exchanged.

  


“Good afternoon, Madame Hooch,” most of the rest of the class chanted back. Malfoy simply kept glaring at him spitefully. He, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about the boy’s animosity, and so freely and happily turned his attention towards the teacher, eager to begin the lesson.

  


“Welcome to your first flying lesson,” she greeted them all in a brisk, no-nonsense voice. “Now, what are you all waiting for? Everyone step up to the left side of their broomstick. Come on, hurry up.” Everyone hurried to do as she instructed. “Now, everyone stick their right hand over the broom and say ‘Up’.”

  


_I guess we’re too good to simply reach down and grab our brooms, huh? Alright_ , he mentally commented. As she instructed, he reached out his hand, but just as the word was on the tip of his tongue, the broom leaped from the ground into his hand.

  


He stared at the broom.

  


_Ummm … okay_ , he thought, deciding to simply roll with it. Most everyone else seemed to be facing more difficulty in getting their brooms to respond, though. Blaise’s leaped into her hand at the first ‘Up!’, but she was one of the exceptions in that regard. Most of the class was more along the lines of Tracey, who had to repeat her command several times with different intonations to get the broom to hesitantly and jerkily start rising, only for her to eventually just quickly bend down and grab it when she thought the teacher wasn’t looking.

  


Daphne was yet another exception in that her stubbornly disobedient broom simply rolled and twitched a bit as she kept telling it to rise.

  


“Did you try saying ‘Down’?” he asked her in a faux-helpful tone.

  


Her glare put the ponce’s to absolute shame, but as she turned back to her broom, he caught a subtle, thoughtful look in her eye.

  


“… down,” he heard her mutter furtively, which resulted in her broom leaping directly into her hand.

  


He wasn’t sure if her infuriated look was from her annoyingly disobedient broom, the fact that his suggestion actually helped her, or his loud snickering after the fact.

  


“Alright, everyone,” their professor continued once everyone had their broom in hand. “Now that you have your broom, I want you to mount it. And be sure to grip it tight! You don’t want to be sliding off the end.”

  


Everyone hurried to follow her instructions.

  


“Now, on my mark, I want each of you to kick off from the ground, hard. Hover for a moment, and then lean forward slightly to touch back down.”

  


His eyebrows raised. _Wait, that’s it? No more instruction, just trial by fire?_ He grinned. _Alright, I’m game! Let’s do this!_

  


“On my whistle,” she called out. “Three, two, …”

  


As the field echoed with the shrill blast of her silver whistle, everyone leaped (literally) into action. He kicked off from the ground, reflexively pulling upward on the front end of his broom as he did so, leading to him rising sharply and smoothly before leveling off, a bit higher than the others. As he hovered there, he watched the others’ attempts, and his friends’ above all.

  


Blaise rose into the air as smoothly as he did, and she smiled brightly at him as she leveled off, clearly thrilled to be flying, and not exactly unused to the experience, either.

  


Daphne, by contrast, was not so thrilled. Her broom rose in short, jerky motions as she lifted up on the front of the broom, then reflexively pushed it back down when it started rising too quickly for her. On top of that, her broom also began a slow, steady rotation as it kept turning to her right. From her frustrated, slightly nervous expression, she couldn’t figure out how to stop this slow, drifting spin, which he and Blaise both found hilarious.

  


Tracey appeared more of a mix of Blaise’s cheerful, confident attitude and Daphne’s complete lack of skill, as she happily and quickly rose in the air, but appeared unable to stop her broom from drifting from side to side drunkenly, resulting in her constantly bumping into those on each side of her. Leveling off involved her dropping too low and having to reascend a few times, and even when she stopped, her broom kept drifting from side to side.

  


Her beaming face said that this didn’t bother her in the slightest, though her neighbors clearly weren’t as thrilled about it.

  


Deciding it was time to return to the ground, he pushed down heavily on the front end of the broom, causing him to drop rapidly. At the last moment, he pulled up hard, causing him to gently touch down.

  


_This is easy,_ he thought excitedly.

  


From there, they were given increasingly complicated instructions ranging from simply moving forward to flying in a circle. The girls demonstrated roughly the same level of grace in these maneuvers as they did with rising, with Blaise performing each task smoothly and perfectly, and all the while with a large smile on her face. Daphne continued with her hesitant, jerky motions, and never could seem to fully counter her broom’s tendency to slowly spin in place. Tracey exhibited cheerful enthusiasm that constantly belied her rather clumsy movements, which seemed as dangerous to everyone in her general vicinity as they were to Tracey herself, not that she even seemed to notice, she was having so much fun. Blaise, on the other hand, ensured that she remained within catching distance of Tracey at all times.

  


As for him, well, there was really only one way to put it:

  


He felt like he had been born to fly.

  


When Madame Hooch allowed them to spend the last several minutes of the class flying freely, albeit with stern admonitions against trying anything reckless, he immediately began doing exactly that. He laughed as he swooped and glided. The wind whipped against his robes and cut across his cheeks as he rose and dived, and rose again. Every movement of the broom seemed like a logical, fluid extension of himself, as he reflexively leaned into each turn and swung the broom back underneath himself to straighten out.

  


It made sense that he’d find this intuitive. After all, it was all about knowing your body and controlling your center of gravity at all times, and that was really the core of martial arts.

  


What surprised him was just how much joy he found in flying, and just how much it felt like finally stretching a muscle that had been sitting cramped and unused all his life. It simply felt _right_.

  


After one final corkscrewing spin, he finally pulled to a stop high in the air near the castle, leaning forward and resting his forearms against the handle of the broom as he enjoyed the quiet tranquility of the sky, and the bird’s eye view of everyone below him. He could catch faint murmurs as he watched his classmates drift back and forth far below. Looking more closely, he saw the girls, who had clustered together, apparently watching him. Tracey gave him an exuberant wave that almost sent her tumbling off the side of the broom, which led to Blaise hastily yet skillfully swooping underneath her just in case. Tracey happily scrambled back into her seat, though, so her efforts weren’t needed in the end.

  


Daphne, meanwhile, simply sat there clutching tightly to the handle of her broom and trying to stay perfectly still, though her efforts were thwarted by the constant turns she needed to make to correct her broom’s constant slow spin.

  


Hearing a faint tap on glass behind him, he turned and saw Professor Flitwick waving cheerfully at him from behind his office window on the seventh floor. He smiled and gave his friendly head of house a wave back before turning back to his view.

  


Looking towards the rest of the class, he spotted Madame Hooch on her own broom drifting among his classmates offering pointers. Frankly, he was surprised she wasn’t up there with him giving him an earful for his previous acrobatics. When he caught her eye, though, she shot him a faint proud smile and an approving nod, which helped make a bit of sense about that. Clearly, she understood the feeling of suddenly finding your home in the sky, and how one needed to celebrate that fact. Plus, since he hadn’t fallen off, he could clearly handle the stunts he had been pulling, so she let him be.

  


As class came closer and closer to an end, still more students found their own wings, so to speak, and so began drifting closer to his height and performing more advanced maneuvers. Even the hulking bookends Gabbe and Croyle, or whatever their names were, started getting in on the spirit as they started racing each other. Their enthusiasm apparently didn’t match their situational awareness, though, as their clumsy competition took them right in front of Madame Hooch, who gave her whistle a blast and chased after them. Everyone else turned and watched as the clearly oblivious boys continued their race. He couldn’t make out the teacher’s expression, as they were all flying at an angle pointed away from him, but he could imagine that it wasn’t pretty.

  


What surprised him, though, was that they were actually capable of functioning without Draco in between them. He had been assuming that they just sort of shut down whenever he wasn’t around, as he had yet to see them without the boy, and had never seen them make a move without his explicit order.

  


Just then, his ears caught the faint sound of robes flapping in the wind, and rapidly getting closer. Time seemed to slow down as his blood rang with alarm. Acting on instinct, he immediately rolled to his left, at the same time reaching out with his right hand to grab the front end of the broom that had been hurtling towards him to ram him from above and to the side. He didn’t let go as he continued his roll, and that resulted in the front end of the broom being jerked down to point at the ground. Combined with the middle of the other broom pushing against the bottom of his own at almost a perfect perpendicular angle, that meant that the other person’s speeding broom was effectively just turned into a catapult aimed directly at the ground.

  


Malfoy’s furious face immediately turned into one of pure terror as he was launched free of his broom and began hurtling towards the ground. Time seemed to stretch out once again as he held the other boy’s broom in his hand and watched the now screaming, upside-down boy race towards the ground far below. Worse, with Madame Hooch busy chasing his toadies, there was no-one there to save him.

  


Just Harry.

  


Dropping the boy’s broom, he immediately forced his own into a dive. Malfoy’s screams were almost drowned out by the wind whistling past his ears while he pushed his shoddy school broom to its absolute limits as he raced the boy towards a very final grassy finish line. His broom groaned under the strain as the ground raced closer and closer, and he slowly closed the distance between him and Malfoy. Acting again on instinct, he flooded the broom with magic, reflexively and almost subconsciously tuning the broom’s aged, discordant magic as he made the ancient, battered broom fly like it hadn’t flown in decades, and he closed the gap even further.

  


Clenching his teeth in effort, he reached out his hand, scrambling to get a hold of the panicked, flailing boy as the ground raced closer at a speed that no-one ever wanted to see. Feeling his hand finally close on something substantial, he locked his feet in the stirrups and jerked up on the front of the broom with all his might. The broom pointed skyward as they drew to a terrifyingly long stop. He couldn’t watch the ground, though. All he could do was grit his teeth and focus his every effort on not letting the boy get wrenched out of his grasp and keeping the bucking, straining broom under control with just one hand.

  


Finally, the sound of the wind whipping in his ears faded, overtaken solely by the other boy’s continued shrill screams as they stopped. He let out the breath he had been holding and finally began breathing easily as he looked downward. The ground was disturbingly close, almost to the point of brushing against Malfoy’s shoes. Glaring at the shrieking boy dangling from his grip on his collar, he gave him a shake.

  


“Snap out of it, Courage. We’re alive,” he snapped unsympathetically. At the sound of the his voice, the boy finally stopped screaming and opened his eyes, seeing that that world was no longer racing past and that he was, in fact, still alive. He sagged in relief.

  


Hearing distant shouts, the boy currently functioning as a human coat-hanger for his classmate looked up to see the rest of the class, including one decidedly pale-looking Madame Hooch, all racing towards them. Keeping his grip on Malfoy, he slowly flew towards them.

  


“Frankly, Malfoy, I’m not sure whether to criticize just how shitty and cowardly your little attack was, or to warn you against trying anything like that again in the future,” he quietly told his dangling passenger. “But the fact that I have to make that choice in the first place is messed up.”

  


“It wasn’t cowardly,” the boy muttered without thinking.

  


Malfoy yelped as he was effortlessly yanked to eye level with his reluctant savior, but he quickly quieted as he caught sight of the boy’s cold, furious eyes.

  


“Mr. Potter!” Madame Hooch called out. “Let him go!”

  


“Gladly,” he replied, opening his hand and letting the yelping boy fall the few meters between them and the ground. Malfoy’s legs were still so shaky from his near-death experience that he collapsed bonelessly rather than landing on his feet.

  


“What happened?!” Madame Hooch demanded, sliding off her broom and rushing to the dramatically groaning boy.

  


“He knocked me off my broom,” Malfoy whined immediately. “I was just flying around the castle, and he tried to kill me!”

  


“He’s lying!”

  


Everyone turned in surprise to see an absolutely livid Daphne staring down at the boy on the ground. “I watched him!” she continued, almost beyond words she was so furious. “He deliberately tried to ram Harry and knock him off his broom! He actually put distance between them first just so he could get up to speed before he hit Harry!”

  


“Of course you’d say that! Everyone knows you’re his friend!” Malfoy spat, now with the faintest hint of a smug look in his eyes for those who knew where to look. “And if I tried to knock him off, then why would I have been the one falling? And why would he have saved me? He tried to kill me! The only reason he saved me was because he lost his nerve at the last second!”

  


“That’s bullshit!” Blaise jumped in. “I saw it too! Malfoy rammed Harry! Harry was just stupid enough to save his ass when it backfired!” This earned Harry a glare from the girl, too.

  


“Yeah!” Tracey chimed in. “The only reason it was Malfoy falling and not Harry was that Harry pulled some crazy ninja spin thing that knocked Malfoy flying instead of him!”

  


“Enough!” Madame Hooch finally snapped, clearly at her wits end and with no idea who to believe. The smug look in Malfoy’s eye grew larger, though, as he clearly expected her to side with him. He continued to play the victim by laying piteously on the ground and moaning to help ensure this.

  


Meanwhile, the boy’s intended victim simply floated there silently, completely beyond words to respond to how utterly hateful the boy was to be trying something like this after he had just saved his life. He simply couldn’t process how someone could be that contemptible.

  


The sleeves of his robes began to lightly smoke as his rage grew and the magic in his veins thrashed and snarled in response.

  


“Perhaps … I … can shed … some light … on this subject,” a breathless, high-pitched voice suddenly spoke up.

  


Muttering to themselves, the crowd of students parted to let Professor Flitwick stagger forward while mopping at his forehead with a handkerchief.

  


“Professor Flitwick?” Madame Hooch greeted with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  


“Feeling my age, mostly,” he answered, placing his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath. “Secret passages or no, that was still a long ways to run, and my stride isn’t exactly the longest as it is.” Finally straightening, his cheerful demeanor vanished under a wave of constrained fury. “And what I am doing here is setting a few facts straight,” he growled, turning and staring at the blonde-haired boy still sprawled out on the ground.

  


Malfoy gulped and reflexively tried to scoot away from the diminutive professor.

  


“You saw what happened?” Madame Hooch asked in clear hope and surprise.

  


“I did,” he answered, still staring at Malfoy. “At the time, I thought that what I witnessed was the most shameful thing I had ever seen in my life. At the moment, though, it is falling to a clear second.” Malfoy’s face lost what little color it had left.

  


“Then it was Mr. Malfoy who was at fault,” Madame Hooch interpreted from his look.

  


“That would be putting it far more mildly than it deserves,” Flitwick fired back. “The entire event took place just outside my window. I watched Mr. Potter floating on his broom. I watched Mr. Malfoy come racing towards him from the side in a clear and deliberate attempt to knock Mr. Potter off his broom. I watched Mr. Potter keep his seat in one of the most impressive displays of broom-handling I think I have ever seen. Then, when Mr. Malfoy’s actions led to him falling instead, I watched Mr. Potter, the very boy he had just tried to knock off his broom, actually race down to save him in an astounding display of character and heroism, not to mention still more skill.”

  


The subject of the professor’s praise started blushing and squirming uncomfortably under the heavy-handed words, thinking that something along the lines of “in a display of unfathomably stupid instincts” would have been more appropriate.

  


“And then,” the professor continued, now glaring fiercely at Malfoy, who started slowly scrambling backwards as the infuriated professor stalked closer, “after Mr. Potter risked his own life to save him—an act that I think very, _very_ few of us would have imitated—I then watched Mr. Malfoy actually try to blame the boy who saved his life and whom he just tried to grievously injure—if not kill!—for everything that had happened!” He glared at the trembling boy on the ground. “I truly have no words.”

  


“I see,” Madame Hooch muttered, joining the professor in glaring furiously at the boy on the ground. “What should be done with him?”

  


“What else?” Flitwick responded, still staring at Malfoy. “He’ll be taken up to the Headmaster’s office, and then he will be allowed to collect his things and return home. Once his wand has been snapped, of course. It is standard expulsion policy.”

  


Almost all of the students gasped in horror. Malfoy, though, seemed almost insensate in terror. “Y-yo- … you can’t!”

  


“Can’t I?!” Flitwick snarled. “What you just did could be considered an attempted murder of a member of my house! One you then attempted to blame him for! You should consider yourself lucky if Azkaban does not end up on the table before all is said and done! And I cannot even say that it won’t!”

  


Still more gasps echoed this announcement.

  


“M-my father will hear about this!” a visibly sweating Malfoy insisted.

  


“Oh, you can be sure of that!” Flitwick snarled. “As will the headmaster, your head of house, all the teachers, most of the students, and likely even several aurors! Now, I suggest you climb to your feet before you are simply dragged to the Headmaster’s office!”

  


“No need,” Madame Hooch spoke up, reaching down and dragging Malfoy to his feet by his upper arm. “I’ll take him. All of you! Class is dismissed! Leave your brooms on the ground to be collected later!” she informed them all. “Now, let’s go, Mr. Malfoy,” she continued, marching a weak-kneed Malfoy off with her grip on his upper arm.

  


“So … that just happened,” he observed, dropping down and letting his broom fall to the grass.

  


“It would seem that it did,” Professor Flitwick agreed, finally relaxing and returning to his usual good humor, or as close as he could come given everything that had just happened. “To think that something like this would happen …” He shook himself.

  


“Do you really think he’ll be expelled, professor?” he asked curiously.

  


Flitwick sighed. “Honestly? No. He should be, without a doubt, but his father is on the school board, and there is absolutely no way Lucius Malfoy will allow his son to be expelled.” He seemed deeply ashamed about the situation. “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter.”

  


“Don’t be,” he told him, unconcerned. “His humiliation is enough for me. And besides, I personally don’t think that what he did was an actual conscious attempt to kill me. I doubt he even thought through the situation enough to realize that a normal person would die from a fall from that height. It doesn’t excuse what he did, but it makes me a bit more comfortable with him not being expelled or something for it.”

  


Professor Flitwick gave him a strange look before smiling and shaking his head. “By the way, Mr. Potter,” he said, “have you given any thought to playing quidditch? From what I saw, you would do remarkably well, and while first years are not usually allowed to play, I would definitely make an exception this time.”

  


“Well, ignoring the fact that I actually have no idea what quibbige is,” he began, earning a surprised and an amusedly affronted look from the professor, “I have way too much on my plate this year to even think about playing a … sport?” he guessed, earning an amused nod.

  


“Are you sure, Mr. Potter? You would be the youngest player in over a century! Think of the glory!”

  


“I’m sure, professor,” he laughed. “At least for this year. Besides, I don’t need a sport to earn glory. I can apparently learn to brew it in potions class.”

  


The charms professor laughed uproariously at that before shaking his hand goodbye and trundling off, still chortling.

  


Waving after the professor, he turned back to what classmates were still around, only to find the bristles-end of a broom being repeatedly smacked across his head.

  


“Ow! Gah! Ah– … Dammit, Daphne!”

  


With one final smack for good measure, the blonde tossed aside her broom and marched up to him.

  


“Dap–…”

  


He was immediately cut short when she grabbed him in a fierce hug.

  


“The hell were you thinking?” she muttered tightly.

  


“You’re going to have to be more specific than that. I do a lot of thinking,” he reflexively muttered as he wrapped his arms around her.

  


“Since when?” Blaise asked as Daphne shook in his arms from reluctant laughter.

  


Before he could answer, though, he was joined in the hug by Tracey, with Blaise not far behind.

  


For a moment, they all simply relaxed in the moment as the tension of the past several minuted drained away.

  


“… I’m sorry if I scared you all,” he muttered apologetically.

  


“‘If’?” Daphne sarcastically parroted. She pulled back in the hug to face him, but despite opening and closing her mouth a few times, no words came, so she simply pulled herself back into the group hug.

  


“Alright, if no-one else is going to ask this, then I will,” Blaise asked from where her face was buried into the side of his neck. “Why in the hell did you save that idiot?”

  


“Really shitty instincts?” he suggested, not really sure why himself.

  


The whole hug shook with the girls’ silent laughter.

  


“You know, if we keep spending time together, we’re really going to have to do something about your language, you two,” Daphne complained. However, he could feel her smile from where her face was buried in his chest.

  


“What language? I didn’t hear no fucking language,” Tracey argued from his other side.

  


“Tracey!” Daphne scolded, though she could hardly be heard over his and Blaise’s laughter.

  


Daphne sighed. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here,” she said, pulling back from the hug at last. Blaise groaned, but did the same.

  


Tracey, meanwhile, threw herself at his back to get a piggy-back ride. He didn’t even question it as he wrapped his arms around her lower legs and started back towards the castle, pointedly ignoring the amused eye roll from Daphne and Blaise’s muttered comment of, “Damn. I should have thought of that.”

  


“Well, that was quite the end to the first week of school,” he pointed out, reaching up to loosen Tracey’s arms around his neck just a tad.

  


“Yeah, so just imagine what the rest of the year will be like,” Blaise commented snarkily.

  


“Probably even crazier,” Tracey said from next to his ear, re-tightening her arms in a cross between a hug and a noose.

  


“Oh, come on, Trace. How bad could it get?” he asked with a smile and a bit of strained breathing.

  


Daphne glared at him. “If things do get worse, I will officially be blaming you for saying that.”


	12. A completely normal day where nothing noteworthy happens at all

“So, we are agreed, then?” Headmaster Dumbledore asked the various witches and wizards assembled in his office.

  


“I dare say we are not, Headmaster!” Professor Flitwick responded heatedly. “A member of my house is nearly murdered, and the one responsible is merely given a slap on the wrist?”

  


“Oh, come now, Professor Flitwick. I think we can all agree that this is a bit more than that,” Lucius Malfoy intoned, clasping his sulking son’s shoulder. “In fact, one might even say it is quite excessive for just a bit of rough-housing. After all, boys will be boys, as they say.”

  


The heat in Professor Flitwick’s eyes said he wasn’t buying it. “Knocking someone off their broom from _seven stories up_ ,” he began slowly, “is a bit more than rough-housing. Just as it is also clearly more than ‘a bit of clumsiness brought about by inexperience on a broom,’ Mr. Malfoy.”

  


Lucius simply shrugged in faux-weariness, as if dealing with someone unreasonable.

  


“Oh, please, Filius,” Professor Snape drawled, “Don’t you think you are exaggerating the situation a bit just because it involves a member of your own house?”

  


“Am I?” he asked with a glare. “Well, I suppose you’d know all about impartiality when it comes to students, wouldn’t you? In fact, if the situations had been reversed, and it had been Mr. Potter who had tried to kill Mr. Malfoy, I’m _certain_ that you would have been just the _embodiment_ of fairness and reason.”

  


Snape’s glare gave meaning to the word “venomous.”

  


“I wasn’t trying to k–!” Draco spoke up, but cut off with a wince as his father’s hand tightened painfully on his shoulder, followed by Lucius giving his son a glare that put Snape’s to absolute shame.

  


“Anyway,” Lucius continued, “since we have finally tabled the _ridiculous_ threat of expulsion and reached a more acceptable response for this … _incident_ … may we please wrap things up? I need to have words with my son, and I would rather not do so here.”

  


“Very well,” Headmaster Dumbledore agreed, appearing grave. “Draco Malfoy,” he announced, “you are hereby suspended from Hogwarts for a period of no less than 30 days. Furthermore, Slytherin House will be docked 200 points for your actions, and upon returning, you will receive detention every Saturday until Christmas break, in addition to remedial classes to make up for those you will have missed. I will leave it to your head of house to determine the details of your detentions.”

  


Professor Snape nodded in agreement, a somewhat smug look in his eye. Professor Flitwick ground his teeth at spotting it.

  


“In addition,” Professor Dumbledore continued, “you are hereby removed from flying class and banned from owning or riding a broom on Hogwarts grounds for a period of at least one year. When school resumes next September 1st, a meeting will be held to determine whether this ban is lifted or extended depending on your behavior and the recommendations of your teachers.”

  


Draco looked like he was going to complain, but feeling his father’s hand on his shoulder, he remained silent.

  


“And, of course,” Lucius spoke up, “I trust that, with this agreement, the matter will be settled, yes? And that this incident will be kept strictly confidential? After all, I would hate to hate to have to file injunctions for slander against a noble house were this … _misunderstanding_ … to be spread to the media.”

  


“Yes,” Professor Dumbledore agreed, maintaining eye contact with the Malfoy patriarch, “should this matter be resolved here as agreed, there will be no need for outside parties to become aware of this incident.”

  


“Splendid,” Lucius replied. “Then I suppose our business here is concluded, now that, um, _justice_ has been served.” He gave a smooth, oily bow of his head. “Come, Draco.” Without another word, he turned and strode through the door, his son close at his heels.

  


“Fathe–,” Draco began, put Lucius simply put up a hand and continued walking. The rest of their walk down the steps and out the grounds of Hogwarts was undergone in oppressive silence. Upon reaching the castle gates, the Malfoy patriarch held out his arm to his son. Grimacing, Draco grasped it tightly before being subjected to the sensations of being forced through an overtight rubber tube as they apparated home.

  


As Draco placed his hands on his knees and took deep, gasping breaths to collect himself, his father simply continued walking down the lavish, white marble hallway of the manor, entering an even more richly decorated study. Heading straight towards a massive, elaborately carved oaken desk, he immediately poured himself a generous helping of scotch from a crystal decanter set on top.

  


“Father,” his son repeated from behind him, having followed him into the study, “why did you let that happen? You could have stopped all of that! Now I’m in detention forever, I’ve lost Slytherin 200 points, and I may never be allowed to fly again!”

  


“Why did I allow this?” his father repeated softly before taking a sip and setting his glass on his desk. “I allowed this for one simple reason,” he answered, turning to face his son. “Because you deserved it.”

  


Draco was aghast. However, Lucius didn’t give him the opportunity to speak. “You tried to kill the Boy-Who-Lived in broad daylight, in public, in front of who knows how many witnesses, including the boy’s own head of house!” His soft tone didn’t last long into his rant. “And you want to complain to me about losing a few house points?!”

  


The room echoed with the smack of flesh against flesh as he slapped his son. Draco staggered back clutching his face, his eyes wide.

  


“Have I taught you nothing— _nothing—_ about subtlety?” he asked in a hiss, stalking forward. “About timing and opportunity? About weighing an action’s benefits against its risks? Have you forgotten that you represent far more than your childish grudges, but our entire family? Our legacy will live and die with you, and I refuse to let our family name be thrown onto the ash heap of history because of one idiot boy!”

  


By the time he had finished, Draco was cowering against a wall.

  


“I remember,” Draco whispered.

  


Lucius scoffed and turned away, returning to his desk and his drink.

  


“I remember,” Draco repeated, this time louder. “And I wasn’t trying to kill him. Just mess him up a little. And humiliate him.”

  


“Well, then I officially stand corrected,” Lucius replied. “You are clearly even more of an idiot than I had assumed. Not only do you lack subtlety, but a basic grasp of consequences and forethought.”

  


“I _was_ trying to be subtle,” he argued, blushing in embarrassment. “I had Crabbe and Goyle distract Madame Hooch so she wouldn’t see anything.”

  


“Oh, well done,” Lucius sarcastically replied. “That solved _all_ of the problems with that little plan. Yes, distracting one witness while leaving a few dozen others in plain view is simply the pinnacle of tactics. I am in awe.”

  


Lucius shook his head in disgust and took another drink while Draco grit his teeth and lowered his head in humiliation.

  


“It wouldn’t have been as bad if Greengrass hadn’t turned traitor,” he muttered bitterly. “If she had sided with me like she should have, I could have gotten off.”

  


Lucius snorted derisively. “Yes. One schoolgirl’s word would have _clearly_ been enough to outweigh that of a Hogwarts professor,” he spat contemptuously.

  


“However,” he continued more thoughtfully, “the fact remains that she _has_ turned traitor, and apparently sided with the Potter boy. That simply will not due.”

  


“What are you going to do?” Draco asked in a mixture of hope and vicious glee.

  


“Other than send a letter to her father? Nothing,” Lucius answered, much to Draco’s displeasure. “What _he_ will do, though, is another matter entirely.”

  


Draco’s vicious smile slowly returned. However, he was jolted back to reality by his father setting his glass down forcefully.

  


“That is not your concern, though,” Lucius informed his son, once more striding forward threateningly. Draco gulped and remained still. “For the next month, your concern, and mine as well, will be drilling the basic concepts of subtlety and forethought into your thick skull.” He knocked on Draco’s head with his walking stick at those words, making the boy wince. “I assure you,” Lucius continued, “that you will not enjoy this. However, for your sake, I hope you retain these lessons to my satisfaction. Otherwise, expulsion will be the least of your worries. Do you understand?”

  


Draco gulped once more, knowing that his father wasn’t bluffing. “Yes, sir,” he answered quickly.

  


“Good,” his father replied, his own unkind smile settling into place. “Then let’s get started.”

  


* * *

  


A searing cold wind whipped across his face as he crested the top of the mountain. Snow crunched under his feet and air froze in his lungs as he stared across the valley far below from a height so grand, it almost felt like standing on another world entirely.

  


His eyes burned from the frost-bitten air, but that wasn’t why he suddenly blinked in confusion, nor why he narrowed his eyes suspiciously as he glanced around at the unearthly, almost … _dreamlike_ landscape.

  


“Oh, god damn it!”

  


“… _Harry_ …”

  


He groaned at once again hearing the mystical, inhuman voice, this time drifting by on the freezing wind.

  


“ _Your pla_ _–”_

  


“No.” He turned and walked away from the view.

  


“– _ce is– … uh, wait, what? What do you mean, ‘n_ – …”

  


Without another word, he flung himself off the mountain top.

  


The world blurred past, and suddenly, he was standing in the desert, the sun broiling overhead as endless expanses of rippling red sand stretched out towards every horizon.

  


“ _Um … okay, we’ll start this part now_ ,” the voice returned, incredibly flustered and confused. “ _You, uh, you must find a balance, as day without night will scorch the worl_ –”

  


“Nu-uh.”

  


Twisting in place, the world blurred past once more, leaving him standing on top of a rocky plateau, dry, crumbling ice cracking underfoot as he looked out across a landscape of lifeless, frozen wastes, as if all life and warmth had been drained away, leaving only a frozen, desiccated corpse.

  


“ _Wo_ –”

  


“Nope!”

  


He twisted again, forcing himself out of this dreamscape and closer to reality. As the world stopped blurring, he found himself in a very familiar forest.

  


“Alright, this is a start,” he commented, focusing his mind on his sense of self and on his perception of the world around him.

  


“ _Will you please stop that?!_ ” the bodiless voice snapped, apparently at the end of its rope, which he considered quite an achievement on his part.

  


“I will not,” he succinctly answered, paying the voice only half a mind.

  


“ _Look, do you have any idea how hard it was to set this up?_ ” the voice demanded with an almost childish whine.

  


“I’m sorry, am I not being properly respectful towards all the effort you put into your torture worlds?” he asked distractedly, yet still with a sarcastic lilt to his voice. “Well, I’m sure your next victim will happily stick around for your little parade of stabbings, drownings, mind-fucks and emotional flaying if you just explain just how hard you worked on all of it.”

  


“ _They’re not ‘torture worlds_ ,’” the voice complained with an audible pout.

  


He stopped what he was doing to look skywards at that. “And what exactly would you call all the crap you put me through last time, then?” he asked in almost bewildered exasperation.

  


“… _tough love?_ ” the voice suggested.

  


He gave the sky a flat look. “If that’s what you consider ‘tough love,’ then you are absolutely terrifying.”

  


“ _Thank you_ ,” the voice replied with a beaming smile clear in its tone.

  


He shook his head in exasperation before restoring his focus on trying to escape the annoyingly resilient dreamscape.

  


“ _Look, Harry_ …,” the voice began, but he wasn’t having any of it.

  


“You know, I worry that my sarcastic, detached nature isn’t quite getting my feelings across,” he rebutted, wiping away a strain-born bead of sweat from his forehead as the trees and grass retreated at a snail’s pace, revealing faint hints of his crystalline mindscape as they did. “So let me clarify things a bit for you. The last time we … ‘met’ … you had be stabbed, drowned, mauled, and broken. You messed with my mind and turned me into a raving lunatic and a whimpering mess, and you made me relive memories that do not bear speaking of, and that I’ve made it my life’s work to separate myself from.”

  


The world around him shook and wavered a bit as his emotions rose, but he took a deep breath and stilled the tempest raging inside him, and the world began slowly being peeled back once more.

  


“In fact,” he continued, now in a biting, but level tone of voice, “if I hadn’t been meditating every night and trying to turn my sense of self into a shield from more of your influence, I’m guessing I would be too much of a mind-fucked idiot to even realize I was in a dream this time, wouldn’t I? Which means I would be subjected to even more of your twisted manipulation and crazed nightmare hellscapes, likely involving my identity and emotions being mangled in new and creative ways while being physically battered and broken just like last time, right?”

  


He didn’t give the now silent voice a chance to respond. “So why don’t you take whatever excuse or justification you were going to feed me, shove it, and just set yourself on fire for me. It’ll save me the effort of tracking you down and doing it myself.”

  


For some reason, this caused the voice to snort in almost-laughter, but it was quickly silenced under what felt like almost an oppressive feeling of guilt. He didn’t care, though. He was busy peeling back the thing’s dreamworld to return to his own mind. The trees were halfway into being the slowly flowing columns of luminous gold while patches of glossy black obsidian floor showed through the fading grass.

  


“… _I’m sorry, Harry_ ,” the voice whispered.

  


He paused at the immense weight of guilt and contrition he felt in those simple words.

  


The voice sighed regretfully. “ _I didn’t … I never realized how all that would have felt to you. I didn’t mean to cause you so much pain. I jus– … I’m new at this, and I’m trying to prepare you, Harry. The things you’ll be facing … they make those dreams seem like absolutely nothing. I … I wanted to help you be ready. You_ need _to be ready. The stakes are so high, Harry, and it’s all riding on you. It’s not fair, and it’s not kind, but it’s how it is. I can’t change it, and I’m sorry about that. But since I can’t take that burden from you, all I want is to help you learn to carry it. That’s all I can do. I’m sorry if the methods I tried were cruel. I didn’t mean them to be_.”

  


He stared silently, stunned at the sheer volume of regret he heard in the voice’s words. He tried holding on to the anger he felt at the being, but it faded from a raging fire to a smoldering ember all the same. All it left was a feeling of immense tiredness.

  


He sighed. “Look, just … just let me out. Please. I’m not going to pretend that I have the faintest idea what you’re talking about, and I’m not going lie and say that I’m just going to forget everything that happened last time, and everything you undoubtedly planned for this time …” He could have sworn that he felt the bodiless voice wince at that, but he pressed on, “… but I … just please let me go.”

  


He definitely, albeit inexplicably, felt the being’s pain at being addressed like a captor by a hostage. “ _Okay_.”

  


Suddenly, it was no longer like pushing against a boulder in sand to make the world recede, and his mindscape began swiftly and easily bleeding through the world.

  


“ _I’ll leave you be for a while_ ,” the voice quietly informed him. “ _I see now that I’ve been tossing you into the deep end before even making sure you knew how to swim, and I regret that. I’ll find a better approach_.”

  


“Well, there’s always simple communication,” he dryly replied. “You know, ‘Hello. There’s some weird and crazy stuff coming your way, which is all detailed in this handy and easy-to-read pamphlet. Oh, and this book explains exactly how you can prepare for all of it. Good luck.’”

  


“ _Well, that doesn’t sound like very much fun_ ,” the voice countered, gaining a slight playful edge to its sad tone. “ _No mystery at all. How boring_.”

  


“You know, some of us like things to be a little more straightforward and a little less mysterious,” he argued, a faint smile on his lips.

  


“ _Well, certainly not me. I am a lady, after all. Mystery is my bread and butter_ ,” the voice declared with an almost audible dramatic hair flip.

  


By this point, the dreamscape was almost completely faded away, making the voice quieter and quieter, as if heard from a growing distance. “Are you really a lady? For all I know, you could be Professor Snape with a voice change, since you’ve never shown your face.”

  


He could _feel_ the being’s glare at that. “ _You know, I_ was _going to tell you who I am, but for that … nauseating comparison, I think I’ll just keep that to myself for a while longer_.”

  


“Confirmed. You’re Snape with a voice change. I _knew_ it!”

  


The feeling of the being’s glare intensified, but rather than waste its final words yelling, it instead took on a saccharine sweet tone. “ _Farewell, Harry. I do hope you enjoy your day, today. I’m sure it’ll be a …_ smashing _good time. Ta!_ ”

  


All remnants of the voice and the dream world finally disappeared, leaving him alone in his mindscape.

  


“Well … that wasn’t ominous at all,” he observed, letting his mental world fade as well as he returned to the real one.

  


He took a deep breath as he slowly opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the gloom of the forest as he breathed in the smell of leaves and earth.

  


Groaning slightly, he sat up. “Hmm. One would almost think that I pushed myself a little too hard yesterday,” he mused as he took in his collapsed form next to a log he had been training with, which was now little more than large splinters.

  


Climbing painfully to his feet, he plodded over to the pond at the edge of his personal glen. There, he fell to his knees and dunked his head underneath its biting cold waters.

  


Gasping, he pulled himself out and jumped to his feet, feeling _very_ awake now. Briskly rubbing his dripping face, he shuddered as cold water ran down his back. Reaching up higher, he scrubbed his fingers through hair that was no longer as closely shorn as it was when he arrived, even if it was still somewhat on the short side.

  


Casting his eye over his private training grounds, he admired how far it had come in the almost two months he had been at Hogwarts. His training ring was a perfect square of compact earth that held his footing as surely as stone. The creek ran along one side, flowing from the pond he was standing beside. That pond had changed heavily as well. Whereas before, it had been tiny, only a couple of meters across and only a meter or so deep, it was now several meters across and reached up to several meters deep, and all of it lined in gray stone covered in pillow soft moss, making the whole thing a cross between a pool and a bath, and all still with a natural, pond-like look and feel to it.

  


He was rather proud of his transfiguration there. It had taken him quite some time to perfect it, but the end result was something he quite loved to partake in after he was bruised and sore from his training, especially when he poured his magic into the water, making the whole thing steaming hot.

  


He hadn’t bothered transfiguring the training ring into stone, though, as it was constantly torn up or even outright destroyed when he really started pushing himself, and as he had discovered, it took far more out of him to restore something as hard and dense as stone compared to compact dirt, especially when an area as large as his ring was involved. Given how exhausted he usually was when he finished a training session, that wasn’t energy he typically had to spare.

  


With a start, he realized that he was getting distracted. According to the brightening sky he could see through the scar in the treetops, it was morning, which meant he had to hurry if he wanted to get in his morning workout.

  


Slinging his bag over his shoulders, he immediately took off at a trot towards the castle, breaking out into a run as he fully warmed up. His breath fogged in the cool morning air, but the heat from his run kept the chill at bay.

  


He picked up speed as he went, reaching farther and farther beyond normal human limits as he leaped over underbrush and ducked under branches. He didn’t slow as he reached the edge of the forest. In fact, he sped up even further, darting across the empty Hogwarts grounds in a blur. He didn’t stop as he reached the base of Ravenclaw Tower.

  


With a grunt of effort, he leaped into the air, reaching out to touch the stone of the tower at the height of his jump. Rather than fall back to the ground several meters below, he effortlessly clung to the smooth stone.

  


_Thank you, sticking charms_ , he thought with a smile.

  


With careful, exaggerated movements, he slowly started to climb, focusing intently on releasing the charm on each hand and foot as he pulled them away from the stone, and reapplying it as they made contact once more.

  


As he ascended, he began to find his rhythm once more, and so he began to climb faster.

  


And faster.

  


His muscles burned from the strain of pulling himself up the sheer face of the tower after already being pushed by his run, but he simply grinned more fiercely and pushed himself even harder. Eventually, he was scaling the tower at the speed of a quick trot, and by the time he agonizingly pulled himself onto the window sill of his room, his face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and every muscle in his body burned.

  


He couldn’t be happier, though, as he paused and looked out across the dawn-lit grounds from the second highest point in the school. He took a deep breath and just sat there, enjoying the tranquility that always came at the cusp of dawn and day, where the entire world seemed to pause, motionless, at the divide between waking and dreaming.

  


Of course, that thought brought up memories of his dream from last night, and from there, the dream from his very first night in the castle.

  


With a sigh, he dropped down from the window into the darkened room, the moment broken.

  


_Well, at least my efforts to ward off another dream attack paid off_ , he thought, pleased that he was able to retain his sense of self in the dream last night, and subsequently pull himself out. Honestly, that was the part that bothered him the most about that first dream. Not the pain or the physical suffering. He was used to those. It was how everything that made him who he was had been twisted and mangled to the point where not only had he been unable to tell he was dreaming, but he wouldn’t have even recognized himself in a mirror. It was how he had been brought so low as to become that psychotic lunatic that had been so bloodthirsty and desperate for a fight. It was how he had become that weeping, desperate … _thing_ in the darkness that followed.

  


Taking a deep breath, he shoved aside those memories. It was all over and done with, after all, and he now knew that he had a defense against the same thing happening in the future, so that was that. Getting ready for the day was more important at the moment.

  


_Besides_ , he thought with a faint smile, _not every day is Halloween_.

  


* * *

  


“Good morning, class,” Professor McGonagall greeted them all. “Today, we are going to be studying a rather different, more complicated form of transfiguration. Switching.”

  


_Well, I guess that explains the whole “double transfiguration” thing we have going on today_ , he mused. _Not sure why it had to change places with charms, though._ He shrugged. _But hey, it gets us out of Defense class, so I’m certainly not going to complain_.

  


And wasn’t that just a sad statement about the quality of that class.

  


Still, at least this class was awesome, and so he started paying closer attention as the professor explained the switching spell, and how it exchanged parts of one object for those of another. To demonstrate, she cast the spell on two potted plants on her desk, swapping the spines on a small cactus with the leaves on a small plant. With another casting, the effects were reversed.

  


“This spell works by exchanging the physical features of one subject with those of another,” she explained. “Part of what makes this more complicated than standard transfiguration is that it requires one to have both targets fully visualized in their mind at the same time as opposed to simply picturing the desired end result of one subject. Furthermore, this spells also grows increasingly difficult the more the two characteristics being exchanged differ from each other. That is why, to start, you will all be exchanging the covers of one book with those of another.” She accompanied this explanation by waving her wand and floating an array of ratty old textbooks to their desks. “Since both covers are nearly identical in size, mass, and shape, this will ease the transition and make the spell easier to perform. As you gain practice, you will be able to exchange features that differ more and more heavily from each other. For now, however, be sure to clearly picture both features in your mind, and as always, enunciate!”

  


As per usual, the rest of the class leaped to do as she said, while he sat and watched.

  


The bushy-haired girl, who no longer seemed willing to sit next to him, oddly enough, seemed unusually less than eager to perform the spell. Undoubtedly, she was uncomfortable about the idea of damaging books. However, she eventually grit her teeth and began her attempts, casting slowly and clearly pronouncing every syllable of the incantation.

  


As if sensing her fear, only parts of the covers switched places, which seemed to stress her even further. However, rather than watch her panicked attempts to set the covers right, and the increasingly erratic results caused by said panic, he elected to watch their resident Irish firebug, who should really have been given rocks or something to switch rather than flammable books.

  


Sure enough, he didn’t have to wait long to see the boy’s textbooks detonate from his attempts, and given the teacher’s weary sigh, he wasn’t the only one who was unsurprised.

  


_I wonder if he has a bad wand or something_ , he idly mused as the boy coughed his lungs free of soot and the teacher floated spare books over to his desk.

  


Shrugging, he turned to his own textbooks, and his own magic. Focusing inwards, he made his core resonate with the tune of the spell, and when his wand reciprocated, he cast it.

  


The covers flickered and changed places with each other, and he was left pondering the exact mechanics of the charm he had just cast.

  


_Sooo … it’s exchange-based teleportation? I mean, it’s not like the covers morph and change to match the other. They simply switch places with each other, instantly and without traveling the distance in between_.

  


Curious, he cast the spell again, this time on a slightly different target. The books flickered once more, and opening the covers, he saw that the pages of the books had successfully changed places with each other. This meant that with two spells, he had essentially just swapped the two books with each other, again without actually moving either of them.

  


_Now, what are the limits of this spell?_ he wondered. _Is it really only parts of objects that can be exchanged like this?_

  


Frowning, he focused inwards once more. Letting the tune of the spell fill his mind, he began changing it, strengthening certain parts and trimming others. For a few minutes, he continued this, until he finally had a tune that was no longer identical to the original, but was close enough that they would have made a decent chorus.

  


Focusing on the books, he tried casting his modified spell.

  


The whole class looked up in surprise as a second detonation echoed through the room.

  


“Ha! So I’m not the only one who does that!” the still soot-covered Irish boy happily pointed out.

  


“Yeah, but don’t worry,” he coughed, “you’re still the master of it.”

  


“Enough,” their stern professor called out. “Mr. Potter, if you will wait a moment, I have a few more spare … uh, textbooks …”

  


She trailed off as she spoke due to how he casually and silently waved his wand and returned the smoking pile of ash into two ratty textbooks, his mind not on what he was doing, but on where his modified charm went wrong.

  


“Mr. … Potter?” the professor asked uncertainly, her voice echoing in the stunned silent classroom.

  


“Yes?” he asked distractedly, only barely paying attention.

  


_Maybe I trimmed too much away from the charm_ , he wondered.

  


“What was that?” she asked.

  


“What was what?” he replied, still not looking at her as he continued to stare at the textbooks and ponder how he could swap one with the other wholesale.

  


“Did you just silently cast the _reparo_ charm?” she asked in surprise. “I wasn’t aware that Filius had even taught your class that charm yet.”

  


“He hasn’t,” the bushy-haired girl informed her, sounding vexed.

  


_Maybe I didn’t strengthen certain parts of the charm enough_ , he diagnosed. _Or maybe if I … hmm …_

  


So absorbed in re-modifying the charm, he accidentally tuned out what the teacher said next, and ended up jerking in his seat as she eventually waved a hand in front of his face.

  


“What?” he asked.

  


“Can you please cast the switching spell, Mr. Potter?” she requested, a suspicious look in her eyes.

  


Shrugging, he did as she asked, waving his wand and swapping the covers of the books.

  


Professor McGonagall picked one up and inspected it before responding. “… You didn’t use the incantation, Mr. Potter.”

  


“Oh, did I forget that again?” he asked before shrugging and brushing it aside, not really seeing it as all that significant.

  


Professor McGonagall looked at him in surprise, before what looked like the ghost of a smile passed across her lips.

  


“Carry on, Mr. Potter,” she said, returning his book to his desk.

  


“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he responded, eager to attempt his modified charm again.

  


Unbeknownst to him, a certain Gryffindor girl grit her teeth and returned to her own charm with even more fierce determination after witnessing this, determined to achieve the same level of mastery over the charm by the end of class.

  


* * *

  


This attitude seemed to fade a bit by the time they reached charms class, their last class of the day due to how their schedule had been shifted to accommodate their double transfiguration session.

  


“ _WINGARD_ _R_ _IUM LEVIOSARR_!” a redheaded boy bellowed, swinging his arms like a windmill as he tried to make his feather float.

  


_Okay, I barely even pay attention when the teachers tell us the incantations, and even I can tell that isn’t right_ , he thought in amusement as the boy’s benchmates started ducking for cover from the boy’s exuberant … “casting” attempts.

  


“Stop, stop,” the Gryffindor girl finally intervened, apparently more concerned with correcting the boy’s botched casting attempts than in being the first to cast the charm herself. “You’re going to take someone’s eye out!”

  


_Oh, it’s because he’s being a safety hazard right now. Okay, that makes sense_.

  


“And besides, you’re saying it wrong,” she informed the boy. “It’s _win_ -gar- _dium levi_ -o- _sa_ , not _wingardrium levio_ sarr. Make the ‘gar’ nice and long, and put emphasis on the ‘o’ and not the ‘a’ in _leviosa_.”

  


“You go on and do it then, if you’re so clever!” the boy snapped in response, apparently offended by her trying to help him, for some reason. “Go on! Go on!”

  


_Do you … expect her to fail?_ he found himself wondering in amusement. _Have you not been paying attention to her in class?_

  


Lifting her chin, she certainly seemed more than willing to rise to the challenge. “ _Wingardium leviosa_ ,” she pronounced clearly while giving her wand the spell’s distinct swish and flick.

  


As if caught in an updraft, her feather floated quickly and easily into the air.

  


_Wow. What an unforeseen turn of events_ , he dryly observed with a wry grin on his face.

  


“Oh, well done!” the chipper professor exclaimed. “See here, everyone. Ms. Granger’s done it! Splendid!”

  


The redheaded boy she was helping looked less than pleased, folding his arms on his desk and placing his chin on his arms in a clear angry sulk, apparently unwilling to acknowledge her success or even attempt to cast the charm again himself if it meant following her advice.

  


_Well, I guess some people would just rather fail than be helped_ , he thought with a shrug, turning his thoughts, as usual, to the mechanics of the spell they were casting. _It seems like more of an aggressive floating than true telekinesis_ , he interpreted. _Does it have something to do manipulating an object’s weight? Or maybe affecting gravity on the target? Hmm …_

  


* * *

  


“It’s _levi-_ oooo _–sa_! Not _levio-sarr_!”

  


He was pulled out of his thoughts at the sound of the redhead boy’s mocking reenactment and his friends’ mean-spirited laughter as they left class. Looking ahead, he saw the girl they were talking about trailing a short distance behind the boys in question.

  


_Oh, no_ …

  


“She’s a nightmare!” the boy continued ranting. “Honestly! It’s no wonder she hasn’t got any friends!”

  


Apparently unable to listen to any more of the boy’s barbs, or his friends’ mocking laughter, she lowered her head and started almost running past.

  


As she did, though, he heard a faint but audible sniffle.

  


“I think she heard you,” one of the boys informed the redhead.

  


“So?” he countered. “She must have noticed I’m right.”

  


His eyes narrowed as he took in the trio.

  


“What the hell is your damage?” he demanded.

  


Surprised, the three Gryffindors turned back around to face him. However, his focus was solely on the redhead.

  


“What?” the boy blurted out, caught off guard.

  


“Are you really that pathetic?” he asked the boy, stepping forward. “What exactly is it that bothers you? The fact that she could cast the spell when you couldn’t, or that she had the _audacity_ to try and help you?”

  


“Hey, shut up!” the boy yelled, turning red and clenching his fists. “This doesn’t concern you!”

  


“It does now,” he corrected the boy, striding still closer. “And you know, it says a lot about a person when they’d rather tear someone down for being better than them at something than actually try to do better themselves. It says even more if they’d rather bully someone for trying to help them than admit that they needed help in the first place.”

  


“No-one asked you!” the redheaded boy spat, trying to shove him. “Trying” being the operative word, since he only ended up pushing himself back, as the taller boy just completely ignored it.

  


“Pathetic,” he judged, shaking his head in disgust and walking away while the boy’s face tried to match the shade of his hair.

  


* * *

  


“Happy Halloween, Harry!” Tracey shouted, throwing herself onto his back and wrapping her arms around his neck in a questionable interpretation of a hug … or a headlock.

  


“Happy Halloween to you too, Tracey,” he returned with a smile and a cough as they headed towards the Great Hall for dinner. “But you know, this is feeling somewhat familiar. Almost like we’ve done this at lunch _and_ at breakfast. Strange …”

  


“Tracey really enjoys holidays,” Daphne informed him with a small, weary smile, doubtless having gotten her own fill of the girl’s enthusiasm over the course of the day.

  


“Of course she does,” Blaise commented. “They’re the only days we let her have sugar.”

  


“Woo!” Tracey gleefully hollered, needing no sugar to have more energy than any three people combined.

  


“For the record, I am still very against this policy,” Daphne informed them.

  


Tracey blew a raspberry at her in response.

  


“After my experience on the train, I’m not too sure I don’t agree with you,” he said, shivering at the memory of that day.

  


Tracey gave a deeply betrayed gasp at that, though he noticed that she still didn’t climb down from his back.

  


He decided to make use of this fact. Ignoring the looks he received from everyone in the Great Hall when he walked in the doors with a girl clinging to him like a backpack, he headed over towards the Ravenclaw table. As Blaise and Daphne took up their usual spots on the opposite side of the table, he turned around and lowered Tracey onto the bench.

  


Her beaming face said that she deeply appreciated the treatment. Of course, when he then went around the table and took up a seat between Daphne and Blaise, her face grew a little less bright and a little more indignant.

  


“Hey, I may be a slow learner, but I still learn,” he explained with a grin, wanting absolutely nothing to do with her side of the table if she was going to be having sugar.

  


“You are a true member of the house of the wise,” Blaise informed him dramatically, raising her goblet to him in a toast.

  


Daphne rolled her eyes and smiled.

  


Tracey simply harrumphed and pouted.

  


It was only then that he really started paying attention to the rest of the room, and the copious Halloween decorations that filled it. Overhead, the floating candles had all been placed inside gently bobbing jack-o’-lanterns, while a thousand live bats swooped and swirled overhead, which was definitely not a sanitation issue, given that they would be eating uncovered food directly below them, but whatever.

  


Regardless, all the decorations looked extremely impressive, but while he and Tracey seemed to be appreciating this, Blaise and Daphne seemed more focused on their fellow students in the hall, and one student in particular.

  


“It’s not right,” Daphne muttered, an angry glint in her eyes.

  


He didn’t need to see what she was looking at to understand. He knew that she was staring at a certain blonde-haired weasel sitting at the Slytherin table, and the two pet rocks in robes that seemed like ever-present fixtures at his sides. The boy had returned from his suspension almost a month ago, and Daphne in particular had never seemed to let go of her outrage about what she saw as an overly light punishment.

  


“He tried to kill you, and his only punishment is that he loses a few points, misses a bit of school, and gets detention with Snape? A professor who favors him and outright hates you? How is this fair?!” was her general complaint, which he had heard many, _many_ iterations of in the weeks since he had returned.

  


He also noticed that she had been pushing for them all to sit at the Ravenclaw table more and more since the incident, not that he was complaining.

  


Honestly, he didn’t care that much if the kid got off light, especially since Malfoy had been much more subdued and quiet since he got back. Frankly, he had bigger things to worry about, such as his little visitor last night. He didn’t really care much about the kid’s cowardly attack, or what his punishment ended up being for it. He would have been furious if the kid had managed to pin it on him, admittedly, but since Flitwick prevented that and at least made some token effort at punishing Malfoy, he was fine with it.

  


Especially since he had no intentions of relying solely on the school system to punish the coward, a fact that he hoped to be able to use to successfully convince Daphne to join him, Blaise, and Tracey in revitalizing the Marauders, given that she seemed completely offended by the kid’s lackluster punishment … for some reason.

  


“Why are you so bothered by what happened to Malfoy?” he finally thought to ask her. She seemed both confused and even offended by the question, so he decided to elaborate. “I mean, I’m only distantly aware of all the political junk going on here, with his family name being some big important thing because reasons, and his daddy having lots of money and friends, and yet even I wasn’t all that surprised when he didn’t end up getting punished all that heavily. Given how much more familiar you are with all this stuff than me, I figured you’d be even less surprised.”

  


“I’m not surprised,” she countered, her bright blue eyes glittering darkly. “I’m furious. I know how these things work. Father made certain of that. But that doesn’t mean I think it’s right. He tried to kill my friend, and they only give him a slap on the wrist for it? What does that say about how much they value your life, or anyone else’s, against whatever money or political favors Lucius Malfoy can offer them? Would he have even been punished at all if it had been someone like Tracey he tried to knock off her broom, since she doesn’t have the political clout behind her that you do?”

  


She shook her head in infuriated disgust. “Believe me, I get how the game is played. And it is complete bullshit.”

  


A sad-looking Tracey leaned across the table to clasp the hand of her frustrated friend, while he and Blaise gently rubbed her shoulders to comfort her.

  


Eventually, she let out a loud sigh. “I’m fine,” she claimed, apparently trying to convince herself. “Thank you.”

  


“It’s alright, Daph,” Blaise assured her. “Besides, just because the school didn’t really punish him doesn’t mean that _we_ can’t.”

  


He caught her eye over Daphne’s slumped head, sharing a grin with her at how she echoed his own thoughts.

  


“Hmm. I’ll admit, that idea does have some appeal,” Daphne mused aloud, causing his and Blaise’s grins to turn triumphant.

  


After a moment, though, his face took on a thoughtful expression. “So …,” he began, “I’m your friend, huh?” He couldn’t keep the teasing tone out of his voice.

  


Blaise and Tracey snickered at her put-upon groan.

  


“You _did_ call him your friend,” Blaise helpfully agreed.

  


“Yup!” Tracey chimed in, a wide smile on her face.

  


Daphne sighed. “Fine. Yes, you’re my friend. Happy?”

  


“Well, I could do without the weary sighs when you say it, but other than that, yup!” he said brightly, patting her hand.

  


“And already I’m regretting it,” Daphne complained, though with a faint curve to the corners of her lips.

  


“Too late! No take-backs!” Tracey proclaimed.

  


“Well, that’s just great,” Daphne groused.

  


“Oh, don’t worry, Daphne,” Blaise comforted her. “You can always split up with him later if you want. And if you do, I promise that you will probably get one of us in the divorce.”

  


The eternally poised blonde sputtered and grew pink at Blaise’s words, which made him start laughing. However, before she could yell at him, she apparently registered the rest of what Blaise said. “Wait, one of you? _Probably_?”

  


“Not it!” Tracey exclaimed with a laugh, placing her finger on the tip of her nose.

  


“ _Damn_ ,” Blaise pouted exaggeratedly at Tracey beating her to the punch.

  


Daphne stared open-mouthed at her supposed “friends” before folding her arms and sulking.

  


“ _Traitors_ ,” she muttered.

  


“Aww, don’t be like that, Daphne,” Blaise whined before grabbing her tightly in a hug from the side, making the girl squawk in displeasure. Of course, this led to him mimicking Blaise from his own side, and not to be left out, a giggling Tracey then reached across the table to join in the impromptu hug/dogpile.

  


“Let me go!” the red-faced girl demanded, sounding somewhat muffled.

  


“Not till you say you love us!” Tracey insisted, practically climbing onto the table to squeeze her tighter, completely uncaring about the stares she was drawing.

  


“No! I’m mad at you all!” Daphne insisted.

  


“Come on, Daph,” Blaise sing-songed, giggling uncontrollably.

  


“No!”

  


“Give in, Daphne,” he got out through his own laughter.

  


“Ugh. Fine! I can sometimes tolerate you all, against my better judgment!” she compromised, now straining for breath from the tightness of their grip on her.

  


“Ah, sweet poetry,” Blaise proclaimed, accepting her response and letting her go. He and Tracey followed her lead, though Tracey was giggling so hard that she almost fell off the table before returning to her seat, and he was straining for breath himself from laughing.

  


Her face now putting tomatoes to shame, Daphne started aggressively smoothing her robes and hair while avoiding any and all eye contact with them or the numerous staring students throughout the hall.

  


“You all _suck_!” she hissed.

  


“Well, now that everyone has regained their seats,” Professor Dumbledore began from up at his podium while wearing a kindly smile that only slightly outshined his glittering lime green robes. Daphne cast a horrified glance at the staff table, and at seeing that they were all staring at the group of them, Snape with a disgusted look on his face, she slunk low in her seat and buried her face in her hands, though not before kicking all of them rather hard.

  


Dumbledore let out a grandfatherly chuckle at the display before stretching his arms out wide and proclaiming, “Let the feast begin!”

  


All of a sudden, the glittering golden plates in front of them were filled with an array of food that almost physically battered them with mouth-watering scents and curls of steam.

  


While the rest of them rushed to fill their plates, Daphne continued to sit there with her still heavily pink face in her hands.

  


“I hate you all so much,” she whispered, her tone a mix of mortification and fury.

  


“Well, it sounds like someone is angling for another hug,” he interpreted with a grin.

  


Daphne’s glare was no less vicious for being partially blocked by her fingers. “Just because I said you’re my friend does not mean I won’t stab you with a fork,” she informed him, her eyes almost daring him to test her on that point.

  


He decided to follow the silent advice of the frantically head-shaking Blaise and take her at her word on that. Instead, he elected to scan the Gryffindor table for his close personal friend, the bushy-haired girl. However, he couldn’t find a single sign of her or her distinctive hair. Frowning, he cast a disparaging eye over the redheaded boy and his cronies, guessing she must have been more hurt by the boy’s comments than he had figured, for some reason.

  


Finally sitting up, Daphne took one look over at the other side of the table and sighed. “You know, Tracey, there is this wonderful new tool called a ‘napkin.’ It’s remarkably useful. I highly recommend it.”

  


Tracey, who was currently impersonating a chipmunk, decided to simply glare at her friend and pointedly ignore the mashed potatoes on her cheek.

  


Shaking her head in exasperated surrender, Daphne finally began to fill her own plate.

  


As if that was a cue, the double doors to the hall suddenly banged open.

  


“Troll! In the dungeon!” Professor Quirrell cried, sheer panic in his voice as he staggered towards the staff table and Professor Dumbledore. “Troll in the dungeon!”

  


Everyone stared in stunned silence at the professor.

  


“Thought you ought to know,” he added weakly before collapsing face forward in a dead faint.

  


He blinked at the new human rug. _Well, happy Halloween, everybody_.


	13. Harry v Bathroom (… and Troll)

Pan. De. Monium.

  


Apparently, the appropriate response to news like this was screaming.

  


Loudly.

  


Thankfully, his friends were the exception. Daphne instinctively reached out and grasped his and Blaise’s hands in white-knuckled grips, a frightened look on her face, which Blaise shared. Tracey may have had the same expression, but it was difficult to tell given how her cheeks were distended from being packed with food.

  


“SIIILENCE!” Professor Dumbledore bellowed over the shrieking schoolchildren, apparently able to give the bearded giant a run for his money in the decibel department.

  


Obediently, the entire hall fell dead silent, except for the sound of faint choking as Tracey desperately tried to swallow her “mouthful” of food.

  


“Everyone will please not panic!” the silver-bearded foghorn declared.

  


After a moment’s pause, he continued more softly. “Now, prefects, please lead your houses to their dormitories. Professors, come with me to the dungeon.” He and the rest of the professors immediately began filing out a side door while students began flocking to their prefects.

  


He raised an eyebrow at the man’s tactics. _So, rather than keep everyone here behind_ _ten_ _-inch-thick doors, you’d prefer to have panicked students milling about in the hallways? Brilliant move. This can only end well._

  


His eye was briefly caught by a black robe whipping around another door behind the staff table, but he was too distracted by the girls to pay it much mind.

  


“Is the man daft?!” Daphne declared, her face white, but her eyes steaming. “The Slytherin common room is in the dungeon!”

  


_Wow, his plan was even worse than I thought_ , he noted in surprise.

  


“It’ll be fine,” Blaise assured her. “All of Slytherin House will be together, after all.”

  


He would have chimed in, but he suddenly had the air knocked out of his lungs by a flying Tracey.

  


“Everything will be fine, Tracey,” he wheezed, rubbing the trembling girl’s back. “It’ll be okay.”

  


She looked up at him with large, weepy eyes. “But we’re leaving all the food!” she sobbed.

  


He stared at her in stunned speechlessness before turning to a face-palming Daphne and an eye-rolling Blaise. “Can one of you take her?”

  


“Come on, Tracey,” Daphne stepped in, taking the heart-broken girl’s hand and leading her over to the rest of their house.

  


Blaise dashed forward and gave him a fierce hug before rushing after them. He was too stunned by the redhead’s incredibly disturbing priorities to respond, though.

  


Shaking his head clear, he turned to the join the rest of the Ravenclaws as they streamed out the doors.

  


As he left, he turned and saw Professor Quirrell still passed out on the floor. _Sooo … we’re just going to leave him there, then?_ He shrugged, amused. _Alright_.

  


However, his attention was soon grabbed by a part of a conversation he overheard between a pair of Gryffindor girls.

  


“… –ast time I saw her, she was in the girl’s bathroom. She’d been in there all afternoon, crying,” he heard an Indian girl, who looked vaguely familiar, say as she passed him.

  


“Maybe she went back to the common room already,” her friend with curly blonde hair suggested.

  


He stopped walking and groaned.

  


“What are the odds that they _aren’t_ talking about the bushy-haired girl?” he rhetorically asked himself, remembering how she wasn’t at the table during the feast.

  


Sighing, he turned and started sprinting in another direction from the rest of his house.

  


“Probably about the same as the odds that she _did_ go back to her common room,” he answered himself, picking up the pace.

  


* * *

  


“It’ll be okay, Tracey,” Daphne consoled her ridiculous friend, rolling her eyes the entire time. “They won’t let us starve. They’ll feed us later, I’m sure.”

  


“But the food’ll be cold and yucky then!” Tracey whined, though thankfully without the actual sobbing this time.

  


“You know, now that you point that out, I kinda want to cry about that too,” Blaise chimed in, though with a slightly shaky edge to her usual dry tone that revealed her nerves about the situation.

  


That wouldn’t stop Daphne from turning and yelling at her, though. “Blaise, that’s not helpi– …!” she began before catching sight of something over Blaise’s shoulder. “… Where is that idiot going?”

  


Confused, Blaise and Tracey both turned around just in time to catch sight of Harry as he sprinted around a corner … in the opposite direction of the rest of the Ravenclaws.

  


“Troll hunting, maybe?” Blaise suggested flippantly. However, she froze as she considered her own words.

  


“… He wouldn’t,” Daphne desperately tried to assure herself.

  


“You know, I said that sarcastically … but now that I think about it …,” Blaise hesitantly responded, an uncertain look on her face.

  


“… He _wouldn’t_!” Daphne yelled furiously, knowing she was lying.

  


“He’s troll hunting?!” Tracey asked in wonder, her eyes wide. “That is _awesome_!”

  


“That is not awesome, Tracey! That is very very not awesome!” Daphne yelled in a rage-filled panic.

  


“And somehow, it’s still something I can totally see him doing,” Blaise finally admitted.

  


Daphne’s snarl made both of her friends jump as she turned and started running after the stupidest boy she had ever freaking known!

  


“Wait, where are we going?” Tracey asked, running alongside her. She didn’t need to look to know that Blaise was at her other side.

  


“We’re going after him!” she snapped, clenching her hands in preparation for a good strangling. “And if that troll hasn’t killed him, I swear to God, I’ll kill him myself!”

  


“Woo! Troll hunting!” Tracey shouted in decidedly unhealthy excitement.

  


Blaise looked nervous, a far more healthy reaction. However, she soon relaxed. “It’ll be fine,” she assured them all. “After all, what are the odds that he’ll actually find the troll before we find him?”

  


* * *

  


“No way my luck is this bad,” he muttered in exasperation, peering around a corner and watching as a twelve-foot-tall troll— _who is definitely not in the dungeon, Quirrell, you lying bastard!_ —decided that it needed to visit the loo, and apparently didn’t care to identify itself as male, as it crouched and made its way into the girl’s bathroom.

  


This was promptly followed by a high-pitched shriek of terror coming from inside that same bathroom.

  


“And of course she’s still in there. I mean, really, where else would she be right now?” Groaning, he sprinted towards the bathroom as well. As he did, he ran through what he knew about trolls. Luckily, that was quite a bit, given how Professor Quirrell had practically waxed poetic about the creatures when they studied them in class, about one of the only times he had ever actually seemed like a capable teacher.

  


_Let’s see … twelve feet tall … caveman-esque society … magically enhanced strength … rhino-like skin and virtually unbreakable bones … and let’s not forget, insanely magic-resistant hides_.

  


He sprinted through the door to the bathroom and took in the massive troll.

  


_In other words, fuck!_

  


The troll was covered in granite-gray, callous skin and stood on trunk-like legs that were covered in spiny growths. Its bulging arms dangled almost to its knees, ending in absolutely massive hands that clutched a crude wooden club that was almost as long as the troll was tall.

  


Letting loose a surprisingly fearsome roar from its tiny, human-sized head, it swung that massive club through a line of wooden stalls, utterly destroying them and prompting another petrified scream from somewhere near the floor under that wreckage.

  


Not wasting any time with petty things like strategy or intelligent thought, he took a deep breath and gave a shrill whistle, which produced an ear-ringingly loud echo as it bounced off the walls of the bathroom.

  


Groaning and shaking its head in discomfort, the troll turned around in slow, clumsy steps, which produced both floor-shaking thuds and loud, echoing splashes from all the water covering the floor from the broken taps and toilets.

  


Letting out massive, heaving breaths, the troll blinked its tiny eyes as it stared down at him.

  


_Shit_.

  


With another beastly roar, the creature hefted its massive club and brought it crashing down.

  


Tensing his legs, he launched himself to the side, his feet easily sliding along the water-slicked tile floor as the club made a crater where he used to be standing.

  


The troll blinked stupidly as it agonizingly tried to process that it had missed him. Lifting its club again, its confused face twisted into rage.

  


With another bellow, it grabbed its club with both hands and swung it at him from the side.

  


Once again, he moved, leaping and rolling in the air, the club whistling as it passed just below him before crashing through another stall.

  


The troll blinked slowly at the club embedded in the wall and the boy landing in a crouch on the water-logged bathroom floor.

  


_You know, I think I may need a plan of attack_ , he decided as the troll swung its club at him from the other side. This time, he ducked low to the floor, feeling the club brush his hair as it passed overhead to demolish a sink and part of the wall, sending small bits of stone and porcelain bouncing off the side of his face.

  


_Magic won’t work on its skin, but I can affect the club_ , he considered as the troll returned to the good-old standby of smashing rather than swinging. He kicked himself backwards, sliding just out of range of the club as it embedded itself in the stone floor just in front of him. He swept his arm in front of his face to shield his eyes from the resulting massive spray of water, trying to keep his vision clear.

  


_Of course, if I do something to destroy its club, that’ll just make it attack me with its bare hands, and I somehow doubt I’ll be able to dodge that as easily as a not-so-small tree_ , he decided, noting how long it took for the now fairly enraged troll to cock back and then swing its over-sized cudgel, giving him plenty of chance to anticipate and dodge the swing.

  


He did so again, skidding backwards on the wet tiles as the club passed sideways in front of him, flinging an arc of water droplets across his face as it did.

  


The troll paused to glare at him in pure animalistic fury as it wrenched its club out of the wall and decimated stall to swing at him again.

  


His eyes widened as he took in the troll’s face.

  


_Of course!_

  


He rolled to the side to avoid the troll’s club once again as he started thinking furiously. As he rolled to his feet, the shift in his soaking-wet robes made him very aware of something that he kept tucked in the small of his back.

  


_Oh, no way is that a good idea_ , he argued with himself as the now practically berserk troll tried once more to smash him … and missed.

  


This time, it wasn’t the troll’s face he eyed consideringly, but the club.

  


_Well, I’ve had worse ideas … I think_ , he consoled himself as he grit his teeth and forced his mind into an intense level of focus.

  


Once more, the troll tried to crush him, but he slid to the side to avoid it, this time watching the troll’s movements carefully as his feet skid almost frictionlessly along the smooth, wet tiles.

  


As it cocked its club back to attack him again, he noted that the creature was now beyond enraged and barely paused between attacks, apparently expecting to miss as it lifted its club and smashed it back down again and again without hesitation, forcing him to sway and roll and slide and duck constantly to avoid it.

  


_Perfect_.

  


With one more overhead strike from the troll, he made his move.

  


The troll was unsurprised when he slid backwards to avoid the end of the club as it cratered the floor and created a geyser of water. More than that, though, it was too enraged to notice when he immediately leaped back forward as it jerked the club skyward. It was too strong and too furious to register the brief additional weight as he stepped onto the edge of the club, and it was too simple to notice the boy using the momentum of its frantic, enraged upward swing to launch himself towards its face.

  


And its eyes were too small to catch more than a quick flash of silver as the boy reached him before stepping off its shoulder with a feather-light tap of his foot to continue past.

  


He landed with a practiced roll on the flooded tile behind the troll, the splash of his landing drowned out by the clatter of the troll’s club as it dropped free from a nerveless hand.

  


He didn’t turn around as the troll slowly reached up to touch something on its face. He didn’t react to the floor-shaking thud of the creature falling to its knees, or the even more massive crash of the thing collapsing onto its face.

  


He was also not surprised by the faint, echoing clink of metal on stone as it did so.

  


Instead, he was more interested in brushing off his robes and trying to keep his skin from crawling clean off his body as it shuddered in revulsion from the bathroom water covering him.

  


“Seriously, I’m going to need all the showers after this,” he said with a disgusted grimace. “So nasty.”

  


Hearing a faint squeak, he looked up to see the Gryffindor girl, who looked rather like a drowned rat at the moment, standing against the wall in front of him, her brown eyes the size of dinner plates as she stared from him, to the troll lying motionless on the bathroom floor, and back to him.

  


“You alright?” he asked the girl.

  


Her eyes still wide, she slowly leaned to the side to take in more of the sight of the troll lying on the ground behind him.

  


“Is it … dead?” she asked in a quiet, stunned tone of voice.

  


He turned to look at it. “Given that it currently has a nine-inch blade embedded in its brain, I certainly hope so. Otherwise, I’m going to be very disturbed.”

  


This news was received with a chorus of gasps, which was when he noticed the audience clustered in the doorway.

  


“Oh … hey, guys,” he lamely greeted, giving the speechless girls a small wave.

  


The three girls simply stared at him.

  


“I, uh … don’t suppose it’d help much if I said that she did it,” he suggested, pointing at the still stunned Gryffindor girl.

  


“Not much,” Blaise rotely replied, her eyes on the troll.

  


Shrugging in disappointment, he splashed his way over to the troll and crouched down next to its head. Turning the head sideways with his foot, he revealed the pommel of a dagger sticking out of what used to be one of its eyes. He frowned at the small chip in the pommel from where it struck the stone floor, but it was how the dagger had been driven extra deeply into the thing’s skull by its fall that really made him grimace.

  


“This is gonna be gross,” he muttered, grabbing on to the tip of the dagger and giving it a sharp tug.

  


After a half-dozen or so more, he finally wrenched the thing out, though he immediately dropped it in the almost ankle-deep water to wash off the disgusting foulness that coated it.

  


“You hunted down and killed a troll,” Tracey whispered as he cleaned his dagger. “That is AWESOME!”

  


Scrambling forward, she climbed on top of the troll’s back. “Look at this thing! It’s huge!”

  


While Tracey turned the dead troll into an improvised trampoline, Daphne suddenly lunged towards him.

  


With a yelp, he fell onto his butt trying to back away, though thankfully, Blaise had his back, as she managed to grab onto Daphne and keep her from mauling him.

  


“Let me go, Blaise! I need to kill this idiot!” Daphne shouted, trying to claw herself free of her friend’s clutches.

  


Despite having just killed a troll, he knew the difference between a fight and just pure suicide, so he scrambled away from the enraged blonde with panicked, splashing haste. With a startled “eep,” the still stunned Gryffindor girl was suddenly held in front of him as a human shield.

  


And that was the scene that the Hogwarts professors burst in to see. A demolished bathroom, a dead troll being bounced on by a hyperactive redhead, an almost feral blonde trying to shake off her friend’s arms, and him cowering behind a confused, soaking wet Gryffindor girl.

  


“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” Professor McGonagall thundered, a walking mixture of shock, terror, anger, and confusion.

  


With a startled yelp, Tracey tumbled off the troll at the sudden sound.

  


“Uh … we found the troll,” he informed her lamely, still holding the girl in front of him.

  


“Harry killed it!” Tracey “helpfully” added as she scrambled to her feet with a splash.

  


He groaned quietly, but didn’t say anything.

  


Professor Quirrell leaned forward between two of his colleagues, and upon spotting the troll, squeaked and staggered over to lean against a wall clutching his heart, looking even more pale than usual.

  


Apparently taking point for the professors, since obvious-choice Professor Quirrell was otherwise indisposed and Professor Dumbledore was probably off catching butterflies to turn into another robe somewhere, McGonagall stalked forward to check on the troll, only to gasp and cover her face as she saw the wound in its own.

  


_Shit_ , he quietly cursed as he spotted his dagger still lying in the water near the troll, now mere inches from the stern professor’s feet. His eyes darted across the room, trying to find some way to get it back before it was found and confiscated.

  


As he shifted his foot, he felt a piece of broken pipe behind his heel.

  


_Bingo_.

  


Placing one hand behind his back and opening his palm, he mentally called the pipe to his hand. Eyeing the dagger across the room, he let his magic swell with a certain tune.

  


_Do or die_ , he decided, frantically adjusting the tune of the spell with little more than instinct, guesswork, and sheer desperation.

  


Holding his breath in anticipation, he cast the modified spell.

  


A sigh of immense relief tore free of his lips as the pipe in his hand was instantly replaced with his dagger, the short pipe appearing in the knife’s original place behind the professor.

  


So distracted by his success, he missed the suddenly sharpening eyes of Professor Quirrell as they darted from the still slightly rolling pipe to him.

  


Hastily, he tucked the dagger back behind his belt where it belonged, thanking whatever deities were responsible for his modification of the switching spell finally working.

  


After all, he would have hated to lose Grandmaster Kalen’s going-away present.

  


Looking up, McGonagall cast a confused and furious look over all of them.

  


“Explain!”

  


The Gryffindor girl made a sound like she was going to answer, though what, he had no idea. However, she still seemed too overwhelmed by everything that had happened, and so no words came out.

  


“She wasn’t at the feast,” he explained, every eye in the room turning to him as he gestured to the speechless girl. “So she didn’t hear the ‘announcement’ about the troll. I went to find her to make sure she made it back to the rest of her house. Just as I got here, though, the troll was entering the bathroom she was in, so I had to step in.” He eyed the dead troll. “It didn’t seem too interested in solving things with words.”

  


He gave Daphne a pointed look as he finished, making it clear that the explanation was for her as much as for the teachers.

  


The way she glared and mouthed “ _you’re dead_ ” at him said that she wasn’t exactly appeased by this explanation, sadly.

  


“Is that so?” Professor McGonagall asked him, her nostrils flaring, while Professor Snape limped forward to study the troll. “And why, exactly, did you not tell a prefect that a student was missing, might I ask?”

  


He lifted his gaze from the potion master’s tattered pants and bloody leg to give her a flat look. “Why didn’t I tell one of the eight frightened students who were busy corralling several hundred even more panicked underclassmen that one student was possibly missing somewhere? Honestly, it never occurred to me that that would be a good idea. But then, I also wouldn’t have thought to send all of Slytherin House to their dormitory in the dungeon— _where the troll was supposed to be_ —so I guess I’m just having an off day. Sorry about that.”

  


Professor Flitwick let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a half-smothered laugh at his response. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, tightened her lips to two thin white lines as she apparently started trying to summon wandless fire magic, based on the look in her eyes.

  


_Yup. Making things worse is definitely the way to go, here. Well done. Idiot_.

  


Daphne’s eye roll, Tracey’s giggle, and Blaise’s weary head shake said that they agreed with his mental assessment.

  


“And you three?” McGonagall turned to the girls.

  


“Oh, we’re just here for the show,” Blaise flippantly replied.

  


“Blaise!” Daphne scolded her before turning to McGonagall. However, she was interrupted before she could provide a different answer.

  


“This is a knife wound,” Snape spoke up suddenly. The man’s eyes were solely on him as he straightened from his inspection of the troll. “Would you like to explain this?”

  


“Not particularly,” he answered honestly.

  


“Harry,” Daphne began threateningly, apparently in no mood to watch him personally infuriate every single professor there.

  


“Alright alright,” he relented, holding up his hands in surrender. “As we learned in Defense Against the Dark Arts, trolls have extremely magic-resistant skin, right?”

  


Professor Quirrell’s face took on a pleased, albeit still nervous, expression. “G-g-g-glad to see y-y-you’re p-p-p-p … p- _paying_ attention in class,” he squeaked, tacitly agreeing with what he said.

  


“And?” Professor McGonagall prompted, clearly impatient.

  


“ _And_ that meant that simply attacking it with spells wouldn’t do much good,” he continued explaining. “But on top of that, their skin is also extremely tough, so just physically attacking it wouldn’t be much better.”

  


He turned to look at the grisly remains of the troll’s face. “But none of that protection extends to their eyes … or the brain behind them.”

  


Snape was clearly disbelieving. “Are you trying to say that you charged a fully grown mountain troll with nothing but a knife, stabbed it in the eye, and killed it?”

  


“Of course not!” he countered, indignant.

  


_In fact, I’m trying very hard to_ not _say that_.

  


“However,” he continued, “since we haven’t been taught a spell that would let you magically stab something in the brain, I had to improvise. Thankfully, I’ve read ahead in my transfiguration books, and I was always fascinated by the spells that let you transfigure everyday objects … or rubble,” he gestured to the destroyed bathroom, “into more useful items, like a knife. Not a spell I’ve ever cast before, but you’d be surprised what you can manage when your life is on the line. Then, there’s just the issue of hitting the troll with the knife without being smashed in the process. Thankfully, my charms textbooks explained about something called ‘the banishing charm.’ I’m just glad I found it as interesting as I did. Add in a bit more luck, and …” He gestured to the troll.

  


Most of the teachers seemed surprised, but convinced. Daphne was the one who caught his eye, though. She was apparently both astounded and deeply impressed, not at the magic that she knew he hadn’t done, but by how he was misdirecting the professors. This was followed by a resurgence of her old measuring look, though with a more friendly and less I’m-dissembling-you-with-my-eyes-and-may-not-remember-where-all-your-pieces-go-when-I’m-done cast to it.

  


Snape was not impressed. In fact, his look was downright suspicious. However, he suddenly didn’t care what the man’s face looked like, as he felt a mental probe bypass the shroud around his mind and impact his barriers as he looked into the man’s dark eyes.

  


Narrowing his own eyes, he applied … _feedback_ to that probe, resulting in Snape staggering backwards and jerking his head as if someone had just whipped him across the face.

  


“Severus? Are you alright?” Professor McGonagall asked in concern.

  


The man set his dark eyes on him once more. “I am fine, Minerva,” he answered bitingly, his rage swelling even further as he stared at him silently.

  


Shrugging off the feeling of the man’s growing spite and anger, he turned to Professor McGonagall as she spoke. “Well … I must say, I am impressed by your initiative in studying spells, Mr. Potter,” she complimented. “I can also say that between this and your work in class today, you certainly seem to have inherited your father’s talent for transfiguration … as well as other qualities of his.”

  


A ghost of a smile passed across her lips at those words, though he was a bit more distracted by the surge of rage in Snape they inspired. He gave the man credit for keeping his expression fairly level in spite of it, though.

  


“Twenty points will be awarded to Ravenclaw for your studiousness and your willingness to risk your life to protect someone not even in your own house,” McGonagall declared. “And for sheer dumb luck,” she added as an afterthought.

  


“Thank you, professor,” he politely responded, rather more interested in getting out of there and changing out of his soaking wet clothes.

  


_This is worse than wearing that talking lice trap, I swear_ , he thought, feeling his skin crawling from the feeling of the icy bathroom water.

  


“Now, I suggest that you all return to your dormitories,” she continued. “The feast is being finished there.”

  


“Thank you, professor,” he said again, far more gratefully this time as he splashed out of the room accompanied by echoing splashes from the girls and the Gryffindor.

  


“You’re not going to attack me again, are you?” he asked Daphne warily as they stood in the hallway outside, the professors remaining inside to discuss what had happened. “I’ve already been through one life and death battle tonight, and I’m not sure I have the strength for another.”

  


“I should wait until you’ve recovered, then,” Daphne replied haughtily. “I’ll wait until some later—unspecified—day.”

  


The unspoken threat of this happening whenever he least expected it hung in the air.

  


“Oh, good. I was worried for a second, there,” he replied in pure relief.

  


She rolled her eyes at him before stepping forward and pressing him tightly in a hug, pointedly ignoring how dripping wet and disgusting he was.

  


Stunned, he slowly closed his arms around the girl.

  


“Um,” a small voice intruded, reminding them that not-so-bushy-haired girl was still there.

  


Turning to face her, he saw a flurry of emotions cross her face before she continued. “Thank you,” she said finally. “You saved my life.”

  


“Yeah, big surprise,” Blaise dryly commented. “That’s only, what, two people in as many months? Clearly he has a schedule going.”

  


“Hey, I resent that,” he argued. “Malfoy’s not ‘people.’”

  


Tracey giggled at that.

  


“And besides, how could I not save Bushy-Haired Girl?” he continued. “Half my classes would become boring as crap without her to pester.”

  


The girl in question stared at him in speechless shock as he flat out admitted that he habitually messed with her, but what she ended up calling him on was something else entirely.

  


“Did you just call me ‘Bushy-Haired Girl’?” she asked him in outraged astonishment.

  


“I don’t actually know your name,” he candidly admitted.

  


This expression put her previous one to shame, as she tried to process that the boy who had gotten her her first ever detention (something she had certainly not forgiven him for), who she constantly competed against in class (much to her ever-increasing frustration), who had just admitted pestered her constantly (and she had _known_ it was him! She _knew_ it!), and who had just saved her life … hadn’t even known her name this whole time.

  


“… It’s Hermione Granger,” she informed him, still with an expression torn between near-speechless shock and indignant fury.

  


“Oh. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Hermione Granger,” he said politely.

  


Still staring at him, her hands lifted in the practically patented Daphne move of torn-between-strangling-and-surrendering before she simply turned and stalked away without a word.

  


“You know, one of these days, you’re going to make that girl flip out and try to kill you with a hammer or something,” Blaise observed.

  


“Promise?” he asked in excitement.

  


Daphne groaned. “Come on, let’s go before _I_ try to kill you with a hammer.”

  


Following her lead, they all turned and began heading through the hallways in the general direction of both of their common rooms.

  


“So … how much of the fight did you all see?” he asked trepidatiously.

  


“Well, other than you pulling all kinds of crazy ninja moves to dodge that thing’s club before flying through the air and killing it _with a_ _knife_ , not much,” Blaise answered.

  


“It was _aaawwwesoooome_!” Tracey judged, her hazel eyes bright and awe-filled. “You were just like, poof, ‘Not there!’ Then, poof, ‘Not there either!’ And then, ‘HYAAAA! FLYING DEATH!’”

  


They stared at her silently.

  


“Why you gotta copy me like that, Tracey?” Blaise finally asked her.

  


“I didn’t copy you! You said it _boooring_!” Tracey argued.

  


“Sounded the same to me,” Blaise responded flippantly, clearly trying to rile up the energetic girl.

  


And succeeding.

  


“What I’d like to know,” Daphne interrupted, clasping her hand over Tracey’s mouth just as she was about to retort, “is exactly where you learned to do that.”

  


“Where do you think?” he asked with a half-smile. “The same place where I learned everything else … and the place _you_ have been hesitant to ask me about.”

  


“I don’t like asking questions until I have at least some of the answers,” Daphne replied reflexively. “It’s too much like coming to someone cap in hand. If you demand information you know nothing about, then the other person has no reason to give it to you, and if they do, then you owe them for it. Plus, you may not even know the right questions to ask, and instead of gaining information, you only end up advertising your ignorance. But, if you possess some of the information beforehand, then your positions are more equal, and you can leverage what you know against what you _want_ to know and walk away with more than you would otherwise. Plus, if you have some of the answers to your questions ahead of time, then you can use that to gauge how honest the other person is being, and if need be, to _force_ them to be honest.”

  


He stared at the girl, caught off guard by the clearly practiced speech.

  


He looked to Blaise for help.

  


“Her father’s an asshole, and he likes drilling crap like that into her skull,” Blaise succinctly explained.

  


“Mm-hmm!” Tracey mutedly agreed from behind Daphne’s hand, her eyes now angry at the mention of the man.

  


Daphne looked uncomfortable about the subject, but also didn’t argue against their explanation.

  


“I see,” he responded. “That seems like it’s really useful for political maneuverings and dealing with allies and acquaintances.”

  


“It is,” Daphne answered proudly.

  


“But, since we’re friends, doesn’t that mean we don’t have to worry about bargaining positions or power imbalances or any of that?” he asked Daphne.

  


She looked uncertain. “I … guess,” she hesitantly responded. However, this was followed by a startled yelp as Tracey licked her hand to get her to uncover her mouth.

  


“He’s right. It does,” she insisted, a fiercely determined expression on her usually carefree and gleeful face. “Blaise and I keep telling you that. We’re your friends! You should just forget all that junk with us! We’re not gonna use any of that crap against you like your dad would. We’re not political whatchamacallits!”

  


“Exactly!” Blaise agreed emphatically.

  


Daphne stared at the wall of determination her friends were unrelentingly showing her. Suddenly blinking her eyes furiously, she lowered her head slightly.

  


“… Sorry.”

  


The three of them gently enclosed her in a hug from all sides. Unlike at the table, though, this wasn’t to pester her, but solely to show their support and friendship.

  


Also, half of them were dripping wet, so that was a bit different as well.

  


Clearing her throat, Daphne eventually pulled back. “Thank you,” she said, more in control this time as she straightened her back and brushed her hair smooth. Her eyes fell on him as she did so. “But you might regret starting that. After all, now I’m not going to be holding back in my questions.”

  


“Bring it on,” he challenged her, a grin on his face.

  


“Alright, then,” she accepted, a small smile on her lips. “Where did you learn to do all the weird stuff you do?”

  


“I don’t want to talk about it,” he replied dismissively.

  


Her mouth fell open in outraged shock at his answer, but it quickly changed as he and Tracey started giggling uncontrollably and Blaise smacked him across the back of the head, though with a grin on her face too.

  


“Ass,” Daphne muttered, a reluctant smile spreading across her face as well.

  


“Don’t worry, I’m kidding,” he assured her, though while rubbing the back of his head and glaring good-naturedly at Blaise. “I’ll tell you all about it, but not tonight. I’m tired, and it’s been a crazy long day.”

  


“Fine,” Daphne accepted. “But tomorrow, we’re going to be having a _lo_ _oo_ _ng_ discussion about this, and a few other things as well.”

  


“Fair enough,” he agreed as they reached the point where they’d be going different ways.

  


Daphne paused, then shrugged and wrapped him in another hug, which he was more prepared for this time. This was followed by Blaise doing the same, though with an overly exaggerated grimace about the water, resulting in him deliberately flicking water at her, much to her squealing displeasure. Tracey tackled him as always, more enthusiasm than grace.

  


They bid each other good night, and started heading their separate ways.

  


“Happy Halloween!” Tracey called back to him as they started descending stairs towards the now completely troll-free dungeons, barring exceptions like Malfoy’s bodyguards.

  


He snorted. “Well, at least I know that next year’s Halloween will have to be better than this one,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his neck and rolling his shoulders. “Man. What a day.”

  


* * *

  


The slow, curious click of boots on tile was almost drowned out by the echoing splashes of broken taps spraying water onto the already flooded floor. However, the staggered, impatient stride approaching from the corridor certainly wasn’t.

  


“Headmaster,” Professor Snape greeted as he limped through the doorway, staring with disgust at the water lapping over his shoes once again.

  


“Severus,” Dumbledore greeted absently, still making his slow circuit of the destroyed bathroom. “I take it Madam Pomfrey was able to patch your leg?”

  


“As much as could be done,” Snape replied, wincing as he shifted his weight. “Bloody slow-healing wounds.”

  


Dumbledore chuckled, his lime green robes swishing through the water as he walked. “Yes, wounds from magical creatures aren’t exactly known for being easily recovered from. However, such is the sacrifice we are sometimes called to make. I take it you were successful in intercepting him?”

  


“Obviously,” Professor Snape drawled. “Though why you allow that man free range of the castle is beyond me. A few ropes and some veritaserum, and we would learn his secrets in short order.”

  


The ancient headmaster gave a small, inscrutable smile at the man’s response, though he couldn’t see it.

  


“I have my reasons for allowing events to play out as they are,” he answered in an unknowable tone, the cold, pitiless glint in his eyes clashing hideously with his smile.

  


“And I am sure that they are far beyond the understanding of us mere mortals,” the potion’s master sneered, seeing none of this.

  


“Quite,” Dumbledore answered briskly, having no interest in reigniting this particular argument. “So, now that our turbaned friend’s plans have been thwarted for one more evening and I have ensured that he did not breech any further into the gauntlet than the first room, perhaps you can tell me what you know of this side of events.”

  


Snape’s eyes ceased glaring at the back of the luminescent headmaster and dropped once more to the massive bulk of the troll still lying dead on the bathroom floor. His nose wrinkled as he involuntarily breathed in the incredible stink of the creature. Dead trolls smelled no better than live ones, unfortunately.

  


“As far as I know, they are largely as were reported to you,” he answered. “Some Gryffindor girl wasn’t at the feast for our friend’s bit of theatrics, so Potter decided to take it upon himself to single-handedly slay the troll and rescue the girl.” He rolled his eyes in disgust. “Bloody glory-hound dressed as a Ravenclaw.”

  


“Indeed?” the headmaster asked absently, staring at the boy’s victim. “And his explanation for how a first-year managed to bring down such a creature?”

  


“According to him?” Snape rhetorically asked. “He performed a bit of transfiguration to make a knife from some of the rubble, which he then launched at the troll’s eye with a banishing charm.” He snorted. “I guess he felt that killing it with a sword would have been too on the nose for him, but simply using magic wouldn’t have had quite enough dramatic flair.”

  


The headmaster gave a pleased smile at hearing the man’s rancor for the boy, knowing their little spats would likely do wonders to force the boy to reveal more of his secrets. After all, nothing revealed quite so much of a person as simple conflict. However, he was careful to hide his satisfaction from the other man.

  


“It’s actually a fairly intelligent tactic,” he responded in a deliberately distracted tone, knowing any praise of the boy would incense the man further. “Trying to overwhelm a creature such as this with pure magical might can be dangerously draining, and trolls aren’t renown for allowing many mistakes in those fighting them. Circumventing the remarkable magical defenses of their skin is far more clever than trying to overcome it directly.”

  


His smile deepened as Snape’s eyes practically tried to stab through his back. “And, of course, ‘I killed a troll with a knife’ makes for a far more impressive story,” Severus replied, determined to see only glory-seeking in the boy’s actions rather than tactics.

  


“And do you believe the boy’s story?” Dumbledore asked.

  


“Of course not,” Snape predictably answered. “However, it seems we have little choice but to accept his version of events, given the boy’s strange form of occlumency.”

  


“Still no luck in breaching those barriers, then?” he asked, nothing in his tone indicating that they were discussing attacking a child’s mind.

  


“Actually, I did have a bit of luck,” Snape replied, a slightly smug cast to his face.

  


Dumbledore turned from the troll and faced him, intrigued.

  


“It seems that whatever cloaks his mind and keeps it from being sensed can be bypassed when maintaining eye contact while performing legilimency,” Snape informed him. “Of course, the blasted boy still has barriers behind that. Effective ones.”

  


“And how did the boy respond when you encountered those barriers?” Dumbledore asked, his eyes bright. “Did he sense it?”

  


“You could say that,” Snape replied, rubbing his forehead slightly, an angry look on his face. “He applied some feedback to the probe that made it feel like being caned across the face.”

  


“Interesting,” Dumbledore muttered thoughtfully before returning to the present. “The reports also indicated that the three Slytherin girls he has been spending so much time with followed him here. Were these true as well?”

  


“Embarrassingly,” the head of Slytherin House replied through gritted teeth, less than pleased at what he saw as three of his students betraying the rest of their house. “I take it you still prohibit me from ending that … _travesty_?”

  


“I do,” he replied with a grandfatherly chuckle. “Their friendship intrigues me. I wish to see where it will lead.”

  


“As you wish,” Snape replied in a biting tone. “Well, if you are quite finished deciding how I will run my own house, I think I will leave. I have other places to be that smell marginally better than this,” he said, casting a disgusted glance at the dead troll.

  


Dumbledore smiled. “Yes, yes, have a good evening, Severus.”

  


He waited patiently as Snape limped painfully out of the room, cursing quietly under his breath with every other step. Once the door closed behind him, he cast a powerful locking charm on the door and turned back to the rest of the room.

  


For a moment, he simply stared silently, the echoing splashes of the broken sinks and toilets echoing throughout the chamber. Then, with a wave of his wand, all sound vanished as the fountaining spouts of water ceased all movement, hanging motionless in the air.

  


His sigh of relief sounded far louder in the utter silence that followed. However, his attention did not remain on the blissful silence for long.

  


Breathing in deeply, his eyes began to glow brightly with a sapphire light. He watched as lines and auras previously unseen began unveiling themselves to his sight as he looked about the room. Studying the columns of motionless water interspersed throughout the chamber, he observed the folds of his magic as his spell affected them. However, those weren’t the only signs of magic he could see in the room.

  


Narrowing his eyes, he sharpened his gaze, studying the faint, almost translucent bits of light he could see sprinkled throughout the room. Stepping forward, he crouched down and studied a seemingly unremarkable length of broken pipe laying half submerged under the water.

  


Turning his head, he observed the same faint folds of light that clung to the pipe hanging suspended in the air a ways away.

  


They were not the remnants of a transfiguration spell to turn an object into a knife.

  


_Curious_.

  


Glancing back towards the section of the room in front of the deceased troll, he also noted a distinct lack of any residue of a banishing charm. Or, indeed, of any magic cast within the past few hours. Other than his own spell locking the door, that is.

  


In fact, the entire room was noteworthy for having virtually no signs that any spells at all had been cast within it over the past several hours.

  


A fact that stood in stark contrast to the mountain troll lying dead on the floor.

  


“So,” he spoke to himself, “I see you learned far more than mind magics at your strange little home, young Harry.” He rose to his feet. “After all, precious few could claim the ability to slay a twelve-foot troll with no magic whatsoever. And of those that could, I dare say that none could do so as a mere first-year.”

  


His smile was kindly, but his eyes were cold as stone.

  


“Just you, Harry Potter.”

  


Pointing his wand, he poured his magic into the troll, feeling it struggle as it overcame the still magically resistant hide, though not nearly so much as it would have had the creature still been alive. Slowly, the troll’s form began to shift and shrink as it was transfigured.

  


_Someone has made the boy into a warrior,_ he considered as the troll continued to be transformed. _That is vexing_.

  


The young fighter also apparently had a bit of a hero complex, given how quickly he leaped to Ms. Granger’s assistance against such a fearsome foe, as well as his saving of Mr. Malfoy after their little incident in the skies. That trait, however, was one that would be useful.

  


Very useful.

  


_And here’s hoping young Mr. Malfoy isn’t too dispirited after everything that happened_ , he thought as well. _He could still be of great value in helping to make Mr. Potter tip his hand and reveal his abilities even further._

  


Turning, he gently waved his wand, resulting in all the damage to the room quickly reversing itself as water leaped back into taps and toilets that reassembled themselves before his eyes. Within seconds, the only evidence that anything had happened in the room was the troll-turned-chesspiece.

  


He stared at the marble knight. Its craftsmanship was exemplary, its color pure, gleaming white. It may not have been the pawn he had wanted, but that didn’t mean a knight couldn’t be just as useful. Perhaps even more so, if used properly.

  


Assuming one understood exactly how it could move, of course.

  


He waved his wand once more, and the over-sized chesspiece vanished without a sound.

 

* * *

 

 

 **Author's note:**  I’d like to take a moment to address something I noticed quite a few people apparently feeling very upset about in the comments when I previously posted this story on another site.

  


[Long comment incoming. Save yourselves!]

  


Specifically, I’m talking about the response to Malfoy’s little airborne mishap, something I was not expecting to be quite as controversial as it has been. Even more specifically, I’m referring to the argument that Draco should be expelled and/or that the incident should have been leaked to the papers. To address the latter, I feel that I should explain the situation with Lucius Malfoy a bit.

  


As of right now, Lucius Malfoy is basking in the rewards of a lifetime spent carefully accruing power, money, and influence. Admittedly, this pursuit faced a not-so-small hiccup in his little ill-placed bet on Voldemort, resulting in him losing some of his prestige when old Moldyshorts fell. However, this actually ended up putting him in a better position than he was before.

  


Because he was able to avoid Azkaban through judicious applications of bribes, threats, and favors, this left him one of the few powerful pieces still left on the board, as a number of pureblood lords that were once his competitors ended up dead, imprisoned, or impoverished as a result of aligning themselves with the now fallen dark lord. This has left him largely unrivaled in his quest for power and influence, and between his vast wealth, the numerous well-placed and high-ranking individuals in his pocket (including the Minister of Magic himself), and his position on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, he is currently one of the most powerful figures in the British wizarding world. Beardsley McDumbledore, lord of lemon drops and holder of way too many damn titles, may surpass him in power and influence, but few others do, at least at the current time. This also includes the Boy-Who-Lived, who has a fair amount of potential political power, should he become aware of it and choose to use it, but he’s still not at the same level as these powerhouses at the moment.

  


This whole political environment is something that the publishers of the Daily Prophet are acutely aware of.

  


Even aside from the fact that a number of people working for and running the newspaper are in Malfoy’s pocket by means of bribes or threats, the simple fact remains that printing anything against the Malfoy name would be tantamount to suicide. Lucius Malfoy could and would come down on them like the wrath of god for printing something against him or his family, and given his power at the current time, this is not a threat to dismiss out of hand.

  


Put simply, at the moment, you could walk into the Daily Prophet office and hand them a photo of Lucius Malfoy beating someone to death with a croquet mallet, and they wouldn’t print a word of it, because they know that they wouldn’t survive the reprisal. They would only print something against him if his power was on the wane, such as how they started printing negative things against Dumbledore in canon only after his power and influence started being stripped away by the Ministry.

  


If this whole situation infuriates you, then that’s good. It’s supposed to. It’s an unbelievably unfair and infuriating situation, but it’s sadly the reality of the world the main characters are having to deal with at the moment. That’s not to say that this won’t change as time passes and the gang becomes more powerful (magically, politically, and otherwise) and more willing to use that power, but as of right now, it’s simply how things are.

  


So that’s why the papers haven’t printed a word about what happened between Draco and Harry. It’s not that no word has reached them about it. It’s that they are more interested in making money and surviving than in reporting the unbiased news, and printing something like that would not be in their best interest, to put it lightly.

  


As for why Draco wasn’t expelled, well, as I hope I've shown in the end of this chapter, Dumbledore has his own plans and motives, and they don’t always align with what is fair or right. He wants Draco to stick around and continue to pester or even outright attack Harry and his friends to force Harry to tip his hand and reveal more of what he can do. This requires Draco to remain at Hogwarts.

  


As for what some feel to be an overly lackluster response from Harry and his friends, you have to remember that they are still young. Admittedly, I may be absolutely atrocious at portraying them as actual realistic kids (though this is partially deliberate, as I really don’t think that realistically portrayed eleven-year-olds would be anywhere near as interesting or compelling), but the point is that they are just getting started in their journey. They still have a long ways to go in terms of coming into their power and learning when and how to use that power, even for those with more political acumen like Daphne. This is a story that will run several books in length, and a large part of it will be about the main characters’ growth and development, so if their responses and actions seem overly childish or lackluster right now, that in no way means that this is as far as their responses will ever go. It just means that they haven’t quite reached the stage of being extremely brutal and final in shutting down their opponents.

  


Yet.

  


Plus, there’s the fact that at his current stage of development, Harry isn’t really all that bothered by the fact that Draco attacked him. He’s offended by how cowardly the attempt was, and he’s disgusted by Malfoy’s willingness to try to pin the attack back on Harry after he saved his life, but that’s about it. Put simply, he’s contemptuous of Malfoy. He doesn’t care that Malfoy attacked him or likely will attack him again in the future, because he truly doesn’t see Malfoy as a threat. This is a problem that Harry will have to grow beyond, obviously, because Malfoy _can_ be a threat, especially if he goes after Harry’s friends, which Harry hasn’t really considered (as he’s new to dealing with people who are not trained masters of magic and thus might need his protection), but the point is that he doesn’t care if Malfoy gets away without serious punishment for what he does because he simply doesn’t care about Malfoy period.

  


So there you go. An overly long and rambling comment explaining the current climate of the situation. This is all stuff that will become more and more clear as the story progresses, but for those who are currently confused as to why these things are happening the way they are, I hope this clarifies things a bit.

  


I want to thank you all for reading and reviewing, and I’ll see you next time!


	14. [Insert witty but lame joke title here]

“… You can’t be serious,” Daphne insisted.

  


“Aren’t I always?” he asked.

  


A chorus of snorts indicated three very similar thoughts on that matter.

  


“You want us to go … into the Dark Forest?” Daphne asked again, trying to convince herself he was joking, though given that they were currently staring at the treeline, she wasn’t having much success.

  


“Well, you know, I thought about taking you to the Gumdrop Forest, but I just couldn’t find a map,” he answered dryly.

  


“Did you try asking for directions?” Blaise asked with a half-smile.

  


“Aren’t there werewolves and stuff in there?” Tracey asked before he could respond, sounding more curious than concerned.

  


“Not that I’ve seen,” he told her.

  


“Sweet!” Without another word, Tracey darted into the forest.

  


“Wait, Tracey, come back here!” Daphne called out.

  


“Come on, Daffy! I wanna play in the trees!” Tracey called back. “And he said it’s safe!”

  


Daphne stared after the girl. “Did you just call me ‘Daffy’?” she asked in a tight voice.

  


“Why, you gonna come get me?” Tracey called back with a laugh. “Daffy, Daffy, _Daaaaffyyyy_!”

  


Daphne pulled out her wand. “Oh, she’s dead.”

  


With none of her previous hesitation, Daphne darted after the laughing and giggling Tracy.

  


“So … ‘Daffy,’ huh?” He asked Blaise with a grin as they followed the rampaging duo more sedately.

  


“Oh, yeah. _Massive_ trigger for her,” she informed him with her own grin. “I’d use it sparingly, though, or she _will_ actually kill you.”

  


The flare of light and pain-filled yelp from up ahead underscored her point fairly well.

  


Pretty soon, they were rejoined by a rather smug-looking Daphne, albeit one who was covered in twigs and dirt. Of course, this was nothing on the distinctly brown-tinged Tracey who limped back to the group shortly after.

  


“Meany,” Tracey complained, rubbing her bum and glaring at Daphne.

  


“And don’t you forget it,” Daphne told her in clear satisfaction.

  


The next leg of their trip was distinctly less exciting, though Blaise and Daphne seemed to grow steadily more nervous as the forest around them grew darker. Tracey was too distracted by trying to climb trees without being left behind to join them in their worried glances, though.

  


“Seriously, how can you even see in this?!” Daphne demanded after the fourth time she tripped on a root and almost fell flat on her face. The stumbling Blaise at her side wasn’t much better, either, and the _lumos_ charms they were casting didn’t seem to be helping much, as it stretched the shadows of the underbrush to the point that it was almost impossible to tell if what they were about to step on was a root, a shadow, or a hole.

  


“Hm?” he asked, momentarily confused, as he had no difficulty navigating the almost pitch-black forest. “Oh, right.” Gesturing his hand, he drew forth his magic, letting it spill free in the form of a wolf made of living fire, which lit up the forest around them like the light of a bonfire.

  


Evidently, Daphne and Blaise found its sudden emergence somewhat startling, given the way they yelped and fell backwards in almost perfect synchronicity.

  


A much louder thump immediately followed as Tracey gracelessly tumbled from a nearby tree, though she immediately bounced to her feet unharmed.

  


“That is _awesome_ ,” she breathed, a sentiment Daphne in particular did not seem to share, as she sat completely frozen while the flaming wolf sniffed her, her eyes the size of dinner plates the entire time.

  


Daphne let out a deeply relieved breath when the red-gold wolf finally turned away and trotted towards him and Tracey.

  


Tracey looked up at him with eyes even larger than Daphne’s. “Can I pet it?”

  


“It’s made of fire, Tracey,” Blaise pointed out as she clamored to her feet and helped up Daphne.

  


“Of course you can,” he told Tracey with a smile, ignoring Blaise’s comment.

  


Crouching down, Tracey held out her hand to the flaming wolf. After sniffing her hand, it lowered its head, allowing her to gently stroke it.

  


“It’s tingly,” she giggled, as the magical wolf started happily leaning into her scratches.

  


“Of course it is,” Blaise commented. “I mean, what else would something made of fire feel like? I don’t know why I was expecting there to be burning pain. Silly me.”

  


With a giggle, Tracey fell on her back as the burning wolf shifted into a fox and jumped on her, dancing around her hands and gnawing at her hair before scampering off. With a delighted laugh, Tracey joined in its game and chased after it.

  


Blaise turned to the still somewhat shocked blonde standing next to her. “Should we be talking about the fact that they’re playing with fire _in a forest_?”

  


“It’s not really fire,” he informed her. “It’s magic. _My_ magic. It just looks like fire.”

  


“Oh, well, I’m sure it’s perfectly safe then,” Blaise sarcastically replied over the sound of a laughing Tracey crashing through the underbrush after the playfully yipping red-gold fox. “And what about you, Daphne? Thoughts?”

  


“I think,” Daphne began carefully, “that we should reach wherever we’re going quickly. I’m only getting more questions, here.”

  


“This way, then,” he said, leading them even deeper into the forest, this time to the soothing ambiance of the hysterically giggling Tracey plowing through underbrush chasing after the fox.

  


Before long, though, he noticed that Daphne seemed to be giving Tracey a run for her money in who could make the most noise as she stumbled through bushes and crashed through branches.

  


“You’re not really the outdoorsy type, are you?” he asked the formerly regal-looking girl.

  


“I am not,” she answered in a biting tone as she ripped her hair free from a low-hanging branch only to stumble on yet another root.

  


Rolling his eyes, he stepped up behind her and scooped her up in his arms, eliciting a yelp from the startled girl.

  


“You’re going to hurt yourself at this rate,” he explained as she leveled a biting glare at him from his arms.

  


Folding her arms, she simply looked away and glared at nothing, determined to look at least somewhat dignified while being carried like an infant. However, the pink tinge to her cheeks undermined her efforts a bit.

  


Blaise’s loud snickering also didn’t help all that much.

  


Eventually, they reached the creek that led to his training hollow, which was about when Tracey came trotting back to the rest of the group, the flaming fox happily draped across her heaving shoulders.

  


“Can you teach me how to make one of these?” she asked in panting breaths, her eyes shining with excitement as she continued stroking the visibly preening fox.

  


He drew up short, a thoughtful look on his face as he eyed the fox, and then the girl.

  


“I … don’t know,” he answered slowly, truly having no idea whether a witch could learn to summon arcana like he could.

  


“Can we try?” she begged, her soft brown eyes somehow getting even larger. “ _Pleeeease_?”

  


He sighed, crumbling immediately. “Sure. I can’t promise it’ll work, but if you really want, we can try.”

  


“Yay!” She immediately seized him in a tight hug, resulting in a squawk from Daphne, who was now being squashed between them. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

  


As Tracey darted back into the underbrush to continue playing with the fox, a sweating Blaise stepped up beside them. “Where does she get the energy?” she panted.

  


He chuckled. “Come on. It’s not much farther.”

  


He led them down the bank of the creek, the blushing and glaring Daphne still in his arms while Blaise staggered after them. He also made sure to keep the fox at least roughly following their path so Tracey wouldn’t get lost.

  


True to his word, they soon arrived at the top of the shelf of earth overlooking his training niche, which echoed soothingly with the faint but constant sound of falling water as the creek they had been following dropped off the steep hill in a short waterfall into his modified pond before continuing to flow into the forest.

  


“Wow,” Blaise breathed as she took in the sight of the hollow, which glimmered with an almost mystical golden light from the sunlight that filtered through the scar in the treetops high overhead.

  


“Yeah,” he agreed proudly as he looked over the fruits of his labors. Stepping forward, he easily slid down the steep hillside on his feet, a maneuver Daphne apparently did not appreciate, given how she practically dug her fingernails into his arms as he did it.

  


However, as he finally set her down, she seemed too interested in smoothing her robes and avoiding eye contact to glare at him.

  


“What is this place?” Blaise asked as she picked herself off the ground from her markedly less graceful tumble down the hillside.

  


“ _Whoa_ ,” Tracey remarked from the top before simply sitting down and sliding down the dirt hill, utterly uncaring of how completely filthy she was becoming.

  


“You like it?” he asked excitedly, happy to finally be sharing it with his friends.

  


“I don’t understand. Did you just find this place?” Daphne asked, still slightly pink cheeked as she took in the smooth floor of the training ring and the too-perfect-to-be-natural pond.

  


“Kind of,” he replied. “I mean, the hollow was already here, and so was the creek and the pond, but I’ve done a lot to modify it since then.

  


“How?” Daphne asked as she knelt at the edge of the pond and felt the smooth, unbroken stone under the pillow-thick moss.

  


“Transfiguration, mostly,” he answered.

  


“Funny, I must have missed the class where they taught the spell to create your own personal, magical wooded glen,” Blaise commented.

  


“Well, isn’t that embarrassing for you,” he blithely remarked, earning a laugh from the girl.

  


“Can we go swimming?!” Tracey asked excitedly as she bounced at the edge of the pool.

  


“We’re not here to go swimming, Tracey,” Daphne argued. “We’re here so Harry can tell us … well, I really have no idea any more. I have so many questions I can’t even keep them all straight.” She looked more than a little frazzled at the admission, though the fiercely determined glint in her eyes says that she still expected answers, even if she didn’t know what questions to ask any longer.

  


“He can tell us all about that stuff in the pool,” Tracey pointed out. “Come on, Daph!”

  


“You don’t have any swimwear,” Daphne pointed out. “None of us do.”

  


“Then Harry can just transfigure us some!” Tracey argued, refusing to be dissuaded. “Can’t he?” she demanded, looking at him hopefully.

  


“It doesn’t work like that, Tracey,” Daphne explained tiredly. “We haven’t learned spells for anything like that yet.”

  


“Harry?” Tracey asked again, ignoring Daphne and staring at him.

  


“I’m not sure,” he answered, frowning thoughtfully. “I’ve never tried transfiguring something as complicated as clothing before.”

  


“Oh, come on, you can do it!” Tracey insisted. “Try!” She shucked off her outer robes and held her arms out at her side, clearly expecting him to just start transfiguring away at the rest of her uniform.

  


“You do realize what can happen if this goes badly, right?” Blaise asked the girl in amusement. “It’ll be kind of a long, cold walk back to the castle in your skivvies.”

  


“It’s not gonna go wrong,” Tracey insisted without hesitation, looking at him as if wondering what was taking him so long.

  


Sighing, he drew his wand. “If you insist.” Closing his eyes, his core rang with the general tune he had come to associate with transfiguration magic. As his wand resonated, he slowly began tweaking the song. Tracey shivered as her clothes began shifting and flowing over her skin, but to her credit, she didn’t move.

  


Twisting the song further, he made her shirt and skirt join together into one single article of clothing before working on … other details.

  


His face burned in a blush as he finished transfiguring her uniform and … the articles of clothing underneath into a snug, but modest and extremely simple, skirted black one-piece bathing suit.

  


“There you go,” he said, still trying to control his blush.

  


“Thank you!” Tracey yelled gratefully before turning and running at the pool.

  


“Tracey, wait!” Daphne called out, but too late, as Tracey immediately leaped head-first into the pond.

  


She immediately resurfaced with a yelp.

  


“It’s freezing!” she cried before her face furrowed in confusion. Looking down, she poked her foot above the surface of the water.

  


She had forgotten to take off her socks and shoes.

  


“Whoops!”

  


Shivering, she started correcting her mistake while Blaise laughed and Daphne shook her head in exasperation. Meanwhile, he walked over to the edge of the pond and placed his hand in the water.

  


Ignoring his wand, he drew upon the magic of the monastery as the water of the pond snapped into focus in his mind’s eye. Tracey’s shivers were quickly replaced with groans of contentment as the water raised in temperature until its surface was lightly steaming.

  


“ _Goooood_ ,” she slurred as she basked in the warmth.

  


“Glad to hear it, Trace,” he said with a smile as he gently scooped up her now freely floating socks and shoes and placed them on the edge of the pond.

  


Turning to the others, he saw that Blaise had removed her own robe and was now standing with her arms outstretched much like Tracey had been.

  


Hefting his wand, he gave her the same treatment, though her transfiguration went much more quickly, since he now had an idea of what he was doing and wasn’t making it up as he went.

  


This didn’t stop another blush from breaking out across his face, though, which she seemed to take a great deal of delight in.

  


“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” she intoned in a low, smooth voice while fluttering her eyelashes at him before laughing and heading over to join Tracey.

  


Unlike Tracey, though, she remembered to kick off her socks and shoes before diving in.

  


Clearing his throat in embarrassment, he turned to Daphne and gave her a questioning look.

  


With a sigh, she dropped her outer robe too. “Might as well, at this point,” she said, closing her eyes and raising her arms.

  


Once again, he performed the spell, and her clothes were transfigured into a black swimsuit much like the others’.

  


“Thank you,” she said quietly while avoiding eye contact and heading towards the pool, her face glowing red.

  


“You’re welcome,” he replied, fighting his own blush yet again.

  


“Your turn,” Blaise called out with a laugh from the heated pond, kneeling at the side with her chin on her folded arms as she watched him with a grin.

  


He raised an eyebrow as she continued blatantly staring at him before rolling his eyes and shrugging, less bothered by removing his own clothes than he was about removing theirs. Succumbing to peer pressure, he shucked his robes and kicked off his shoes before removing his shirt and tie. Pointing his wand, he slowly transfigured his remaining clothes into a pair of simple swim trunks, the experience he’d just gained transfiguring their clothes making the process much easier than he’d expected.

  


Looking up, he found all three of the girls staring at him unblinkingly, which he had to admit was slightly unnerving. Walking over to the pond, he dropped himself in with a splash, at which point Daphne broke her gaze with a cough and a more brilliant blush.

  


Blaise simply kept staring at him silently with an expression he couldn’t quite place.

  


Before he could break the awkward silence, though, Tracey did so for him.

  


“So you _do_ have the scar!” she happily pointed out.

  


Blinking, he looked down at the inverted triangle branded on his chest over his heart. “Well, yeah, but how do you … oh, that’s right, you guys all know about the scar because of the whole ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ thing. I forgot about that.”

  


“Of course you did,” Daphne muttered, finally winning out over her blush as she shook her head in amusement.

  


“And you have a tattoo!” Tracey also pointed out, looking at the chain of runes encircling his right bicep.

  


“Well, yeah, don’t all the cool people?” he asked facetiously. Her eyes gleaming, Tracey turned to Daphne.

  


“No,” Daphne said before the girl could even open her mouth.

  


“But _Daph_ –…”

  


“You cannot have a tattoo, Tracey,” Daphne insisted in an extremely final tone of voice. Tracey harrumphed as she sank back into the water with a pout, it apparently never occurring to her that she could get one even if Daphne said no.

  


He chuckled. However, though Daphne looked like she was about to begin her questioning, he had something to say first. “Before we get started, I’d like to ask that everything I say here be kept private. I’d rather not have everyone know what I’m about to tell you.”

  


“Of course,” Daphne immediately agreed.

  


“Sounds fair,” Blaise agreed as well.

  


“Fine,” Tracey said, still sulking.

  


“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “Now then … where do you want to start?”

  


“How about with this whole place,” Daphne suggested. “What is it and why is it here?”

  


“It’s a training area,” he answered. “I come out here every day to experiment with the magic we’re taught and to train both my magic and my body. I like a bit of space and privacy for that.”

  


“Your body?” Daphne asked, confused.

  


“Where I was raised, there was a lot of emphasis placed on mages training every aspect of themselves, not just their magical talents,” he explained. “This included training one’s mind and body, as they feel that anyone who neglects these parts of themselves will inevitably be imbalanced and incomplete, no matter what magic they know. One of the methods they use to train their bodies is martial arts, which I really enjoy.”

  


“That explains the muscles,” Blaise commented half under her breath.

  


The other three all looked at her.

  


“… I said that out loud, didn’t I?” she asked sheepishly. “You know what, ignore me. I’ll just be floating here, making no noise and pretending that I don’t exist.” With that, she sank in the water until everything below her nose could no longer be seen.

  


Rolling her eyes, Daphne decided to follow the girl’s advice. “And where exactly were you raised?” she asked him next as Tracey lazily floated past.

  


“A monastery in China,” he answered. “It’s run by a group that’s been around since … well, forever, I guess.”

  


“Who is this group?” Daphne asked, her eyes bright with interest.

  


“Their official name is ‘The Stewards of Magic,’” he said. “But they barely ever use it. To everyone there, it’s simply ‘the monastery.’”

  


“I’ve never heard of them,” Daphne said thoughtfully.

  


“I’m not surprised,” he replied. “They’re pretty reclusive.”

  


“How do they find new members?” Daphne asked, confused. “And how did you end up there?”

  


“They have this ritual,” he explained. “When they feel it’s time for a master to take on an apprentice, the ritual sends the master to the apprentice, wherever they may be. If the apprentice agrees, the ritual returns them to the monastery, where the final part of the ritual takes place, sealing the apprentice to the monastery and to their master.”

  


He lifted his right arm. “That’s where the tattoo comes from. It’s an apprentice bond connecting me with my master.”

  


“Who is your master?” Daphne asked, staring intently at the tattoo as Tracey swam over and began poking at it.

  


“Faraji,” he answered proudly. “He’s awesome! We spar against each other all the time, but I’ve never been able to beat him. Not even once! It doesn’t matter if we’re using magic, hand-to-hand, or anything! He’s just too good.”

  


“He sounds incredible,” Daphne said, a suitably impressed look on her face as she finally looked up from the brand around his arm.

  


“Absolutely,” he agreed with a grin.

  


“So what kind of magic have they taught you?” she asked leaning forward in even greater interest.

  


“The magic-y kind,” he replied with a grin.

  


She was not pleased with this answer. The faint sound of bubbles coming from the still mostly submersed Blaise as she laughed said that she was certainly pleased with it, though.

  


“It’s a hard question to answer,” he hastily amended with a laugh before Daphne took his head off. “I’ve learned a lot of different things there. I haven’t been trained in every field of study they have, yet, as there are some magics they won’t teach to someone as young as me, but I’ve still learned a lot.”

  


“Like what?” Daphne prompted, determined to get some idea of his capabilities.

  


“Well, summoning arcana, for one,” he answered, bringing back the living flame, which this time took the shape of a thick-limbed cat as it jumped from the shore to land on a slightly alarmed Blaise’s head.

  


“What is ‘arcana’?” Daphne asked in interest as she inspected the strange cat.

  


“Put _very_ simply, it’s raw magical energy from your core,” he explained. “Mine resembles fire, because that’s simply what suits my magic, but it can look different for everyone,” he continued. “Mine also takes the form of animals and shows more sentient behavior because I have a deeper connection to my magic than most.” He paused. “At least, that’s what Grandmaster Takashi and I think. For others, it can simply look like a ball of energy.”

  


With a snap, the fiery cat withdrew into itself to form a brightly glowing sphere, which hummed faintly as it floated over the water.

  


“What does it do?” Daphne asked, staring intently at the sphere, as were Blaise and Tracey.

  


“That’s a really long conversation in and of itself,” he replied, letting the sphere fade away as the energy returned to his core. “To be honest, we’re still piecing it together, since my teacher only founded the practice of wielding arcana a couple decades ago.”

  


“Oh,” Daphne replied, visibly disappointed.

  


“But you’re still going to try and teach me to cast it, right?” Tracey asked, a fierce look on his face, which did not say much for his well-being if he declined.

  


“I’ll certainly try, Trace,” he assured her, receiving a beaming grin in response.

  


“What else can you do?” Daphne asked.

  


“Lots of things,” he answered. “I’ve studied runes, manipulating energy, rituals, healing, mind magics … lots of stuff.”

  


Daphne blinked, trying to figure out which one to ask about first. “Rituals?” she eventually decided upon.

  


“Yeah. You see, you guys have wands to help shape your magic into complex spells. At the monastery, we don’t have that. So sometimes, for more advanced magic, we need to use other means to help ground and shape it, such as runes, or, for _really_ complex or dangerous magic, rituals.”

  


“You know runes?” Blaise asked suddenly. “That’s something we only start learning in third year.”

  


He was surprised. “Really? That’s odd. In the monastery, it’s one of the first things you start learning. It’s essentially the written form of magic, so it seems to make sense to start learning to use it as early as possible, just like learning any other language.”

  


To demonstrate, he raised his hand, gently tracing it in a circle through the air, leaving a faintly glowing line in his wake as he did. Carefully, he shaped a relatively simply rune in the center, then made a smaller circle overlapping part of the outside ring, inside which he placed another rune, though smaller than the one in the center.

  


As he tilted his hand, the entire glowing runic array turned until it was horizontal, and lowering his hand, he brought the rune down until it floated just on the surface of the water, though it didn’t actually bob on the ripples of the water caused by the three interested girls leaning in closer.

  


Touching the small rune on the outside ring, he fed it magic, making that small circle glow more and more brightly. Finally, he turned his hand once again, making that small circle spin a quarter turn.

  


Abruptly, the entire runic circle lit up brilliantly and a quaffle-sized flame flared into being, dancing in the air half a foot above the circle.

  


Finished, he leaned back against the edge of the pond as the girls continued to marvel at the runic flame.

  


“I … don’t think we learn to do anything like that,” Blaise informed him, continuing to stare at the glowing lines of the runes, which had lost a little of their brilliance since they had been activated. “What exactly did you do?”

  


“I placed the rune for ‘flame’ inside of a runic circle, and then I placed another smaller runic circle to govern how it was powered. Now that it’s been activated, it will run until the energy I fed it runs out, which should be pretty soon.”

  


Indeed, while the fire burned as merrily as ever in the air above the water, the light of the circle below had almost completely faded, leaving behind black lines like a trail of ash. As they watched, the remaining light in the circle flickered and vanished, allowing the flame to die as the circle faded away like dust in a breeze.

  


“… Huh,” Blaise eloquently remarked.

  


“What all can that do?” Daphne asked, gently swiping her hand through the water where the rune used to be.

  


“In a word, anything,” he answered. “So long as you know the runes you need and can figure out how to string them together to accomplish what you want, casting with runes can be as versatile as any other type of casting. It’s just a bit more technically oriented than most, and it takes a bit of time to set up. It’s especially well suited for imbuing an area with certain magical effects.”

  


“Interesting …,” Daphne muttered.

  


“Very,” Blaise agreed thoughtfully.

  


“And pretty,” Tracey pointed out.

  


“I’m glad you all like it so much,” he remarked with a chuckle, “because I was actually planning on giving you a more in-depth example of how they can work.”

  


“What do you mean?” Daphne asked curiously.

  


“I mean that a certain potion’s master who shall remain nameless tried to read my mind last night after our little tango with the troll,” he said simply.

  


“Snape tried to perform legilimency on you?!” Daphne demanded, her eyes blazing.

  


“He only tried? He didn’t succeed?” Blaise asked in surprise.

  


“It doesn’t matter if he didn’t succeed!” Daphne yelled. “He’s a teacher, and he tried to attack a student’s mind. That’s a crime!”

  


“It is?” he asked in mild confusion, not expecting that response, given his experience with Manisha back at the monastery. “Well, even if it is one here, it’s a crime that has no evidence and can’t really be proven.”

  


“That doesn’t matter!” Daphne insisted, clearly furious at what she saw as a betrayal on the part of her own head of house.

  


“Regardless,” he cut in, trying to get the conversation back on track, “the reason I bring it up is that I’m worried he’ll try the same thing on you, or that someone else will. I certainly wouldn’t put it past the headmaster. That man creeps me out for some reason.” He shook himself, bringing his focus back to the problem at hand. “And I take it that most of you don’t have mental shields?”

  


“Occlumency?” Daphne asked. “I actually have been taught to use that.”

  


“I haven’t,” Blaise spoke up.

  


“Occlumewhatta?” Tracey asked, confused.

  


He smiled at the redhead’s confusion. “Well, for those of you who don’t have mental shields, I pulled an all-nighter last night drawing up a runic array that should give you a rudimentary defense to keep you somewhat secure until I can teach you how to shield your mind yourself. At the very least, it’ll keep others from reading your mind without you being aware of it.”

  


“You can do that?” Daphne asked in amazement. “How does it work?”

  


He paused to think, trying to figure out how to explain. “Put _very_ simply, it creates a series of relays around your minds. Any magic that tries to contact your mind ends up bouncing back and forth between those relays instead of making it through to your mind. On top of that, the relays release … I guess you’d call it ‘mental noise’ each time they’re bounced off of. This is cumulative, so the attacker gets caught in a feedback loop that gets more and more painful the longer they maintain the connection, which should keep them from focusing long enough to try and bypass the shield.” He shrugged. “At least, that’s what it’s supposed to do. I haven’t exactly been able to test it yet.”

  


All three of the girls stared open-mouthed at him as he finished his explanation.

  


“That sounds like a bit more than a ‘rudimentary defense’,” Daphne judged.

  


“Well, it’s not perfect,” he explained. “It can be bypassed if you _really_ know what you’re doing, and it can possibly be broken through with enough force and brute power. Basically, I don’t think something like this should be kept as a first line of defense. You’ll be a lot safer with actual mental shields in place. This will hopefully just scare off the more subtle attackers after realizing you have at least some kind of shields in place. The ones who simply don’t care whether or not you know they’re attacking your mind can still pose a threat if they’re determined enough.”

  


“I see,” Daphne replied thoughtfully. “And how did you plan to set up this defense?”

  


He looked at Tracey as he answered, a wide grin on his face. “With tattoos.”

  


Tracey’s delighted grin outshined the flame he had conjured.

  


Daphne stared at him. “Seriously?”

  


“Well, not _real_ tattoos,” he hedged. “They’re not permanent, and most of it won’t even really be visible most of the time.”

  


“Well, that’s _much_ better,” Daphne remarked sarcastically.

  


“Blah blah blah. Less talking, more tattooing!” Tracey declared.

  


“You sure you want this, Trace?” he asked the girl who was apparently determined to be his guinea pig for the runic array.

  


“Yep! Let’s do it!” Tracey responded enthusiastically. “So where do I get the tattoo?”

  


He grinned at her excitement. “On your back, mostly, though the final part will be on the back of your neck.”

  


“Cool,” Tracey breathed excitedly, turning around in the water and pushing her back towards him with a splash.

  


“And how exactly do you plan to place the tattoo on her back?” Blaise inquired, an amused glint in her eye.

  


He looked down at the modified swimsuit covering Tracey’s back. “Uh … we’ll have to … move the swimsuit out of the way.”

  


His damn blush returned.

  


“Okay!” Tracey replied, not even hesitating as she started to peel off the top part of her swimsuit.

  


“NonowaitTracey!” he yelped, grabbing the material before she could pull it down.

  


“Tracey!” Daphne squealed, sounding mortified. “ _Modesty_! Learn some!”

  


All the while, Blaise simply laughed hysterically, almost drowning a few times due to how she was losing control of her limbs.

  


Tracey looked back over her bared shoulders in confusion. “But you said–”

  


“I meant that I would transfigure the back of the swimsuit! I didn’t mean get half naked!” he choked, his hands clutching the back of the suit still the only thing keeping the girl at least halfway decent.

  


“Oh,” Tracey replied in realization. “I guess that works too.” She pulled the top half of her suit back on.

  


He looked back at Daphne to see the girl groaning and rubbing her temples, her face absolutely scarlet, though his own didn’t feel much better.

  


Blaise just kept giggling uncontrollably, now grabbing onto the edge of the pool to keep herself from slipping under the water again.

  


“Is that better?” Tracey asked, now fully clothed once more.

  


“Much,” he responded gratefully, leading her to the edge of the pond and having her lean forward against the moss-pillowed side. Taking his wand, he gently traced it down the center of her back from neck to waist. Tracey shivered and giggled at the sensation as the back of her swimsuit shifted and melted away, leaving the majority of her glistening-wet back exposed.

  


Finally able to control his blush, he focused intently on gently and painstakingly tracing the complicated runic array on her back, black lines left on her skin in the wake of his hand.

  


“You know, I’m starting to wonder whether our good friend Mr. Potter here is all that noble,” Blaise remarked suddenly, still giggling periodically. “I mean, he drags us out here to his own private wooded glen, gets us in a heated pool, tries to get us naked, and is now giving us tattoos.” Glancing over at Blaise, he saw a wicked grin on her face. “Next thing you know, he’ll be breaking out some bottles of firewhiskey and trying to talk us into performing certain deeds that are not at all ladylike.”

  


He could actually hear the wet smack of Daphne face-palming at her friend’s remarks, though that certainly didn’t stop Blaise herself from snickering at them, or Tracey from joining her, which did not make his job easier, given how she kept shaking.

  


He didn’t even bother pointing out that it was Tracey who pushed for them to go swimming in the first place, or that it was Tracey who started almost getting naked … or that Tracey was the one who was so gung-ho for getting a tattoo.

  


Eyeing the auburn-haired girl squirming in front of him, he started wondering whether she wasn’t a bad influence on them all. Shrugging, he got back to his work.

  


Saddened that no-one was rising to her bait, Blaise swam over and leaned against their side of the pool and watched them.

  


“I gotta say, it’s kinda unfair that you can do all this crazy magic stuff from this monastery place and still learn to do all kinds of advanced magic we haven’t even learned yet here,” she snarkily complained. “I mean, sheesh, leave something for the rest of us!”

  


“Hey, it’s not all sunshine and roses for me,” he pointed out, still with his eyes on the elaborate array he was tracing. “I don’t get to learn spells from books the way you guys can, for instance, and that is all kinds of unfair.”

  


“What do you mean?” Daphne joined in, swimming over next to Blaise.

  


“I use my magic differently than you lot,” he explained as he worked. “At the monastery, they teach you to consciously connect with and mold your internal magic. That’s great for learning their brand of magic, but wand-based magic relies on people letting the wand shape their magic for them. Unfortunately, I can’t really turn my connection with my magic off to let this happen, so while you all can pick up a textbook and copy the wand movements and incantations you read there and learn a new spell just fine, I can’t. I just end up mumbling a bunch of nonsense words and wiggling a stick in the air. Nothing really happens. Just a light show and a bunch of irritation.”

  


Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daphne’s mouth open and close as she struggled to answer. “I … but you … how are you learning spells at all, then?”

  


“By sensing how magic is shaped when other people cast spells around me,” he answered, checking his work and modifying one slightly misplaced line. “Once I’ve sensed how someone else’s magic has been shaped into a spell, that tells me how I can shape my own magic to do the same thing, since my wand won’t really do that for me automatically like it does for everyone else.”

  


Daphne blinked at his answer. “But … but then how do you explain all of this?” she asked, gesturing to the transfigured glen.

  


“Experimentation,” he told her. “I need to sense someone casting a spell before I can copy it, but that doesn’t mean I can _only_ copy it. I can play around with it too to figure out what else I can make the spell do.”

  


“… I was wrong,” Blaise amended. “ _That_ is unfair.”

  


“You’re not wrong,” Daphne agreed before a thoughtful look entered her eye. “How about a trade, Harry?”

  


He paused in his tracing to look at her.

  


“We learn spells from books that we haven’t learned in class, yet,” she began, “we teach them to you—or just perform them around you, I guess,” she paused there to mutter “ _ridiculously unfair_ ” under her breath before continuing, “and in exchange, you teach us some of the magic you learned in your monastery. Deal?”

  


He hesitated before answering. “That sounds great— _really_ great—but I can’t actually guarantee you can learn what I did at the monastery.”

  


“Why is that?” Daphne demanded, a crestfallen look on her face.

  


“The mages at the monastery said that a person’s magical core evolves over time to suit a certain style of magic. That claimed that they couldn’t learn to use wand-based magic, and that most wand-wielders couldn’t learn to use their own,” he explained. “They said I was an exception to that, but I have no idea why or what that means.”

  


“So it’s no use, then?” Daphne asked disappointedly.

  


“I didn’t say that,” he rebutted, a smile growing across his face. “I’ve never been one to accept that something couldn’t be done just because someone else said it couldn’t, and I don’t see a real reason you couldn’t learn to use magic like mine, even if you end up using it a bit differently.” Daphne brightened at his words. “I just wanted you to know before I agreed that I can’t really guarantee anything. You might be able to learn it no problem, or, who knows, my teachers might actually be right. It wouldn’t be the first time. But if you’re interested, I don’t see a reason not to try.”

  


A bright smile spread across Daphne’s face as well. “I think we have a deal, then.”

  


“Hey hey hey, can’t we discuss this, first?” Blaise hurriedly interrupted Daphne. “I mean, we seem to be getting kinda the raw end of the deal here, with all these ‘maybe’s. Can’t we ask for something else to sweeten the pot?”

  


“Like what?” Daphne asked, completely lost as to where Blaise was going with this.

  


“Oh, I don’t know, footrubs, massive case of butterbeer, maybe have him wear a dress for a week?” she suggested, smiling a wicked grin all the while.

  


Daphne stared at her.

  


“I think we have a deal, then,” she repeated to him, utterly ignoring her friend’s suggestions, much to his relief and Blaise’s clear disappointment.

  


“Joykill,” Blaise muttered in a pout.

  


Rolling his eyes, he continued his work on Tracey, drawing a small but deceptively complex runic circle on the back of her neck, connected to the larger runic array covering her back by a solid straight line.

  


Daphne swam closer, studying the incredibly complex tattoo covering Tracey’s back.

  


The center-point was a large circle interwoven with runes both inside and out, but it was layered with smaller runic circles on the inside, and other circles surrounded it like rays from a sun, all connected to the core circle with lines.

  


Studying the array as a whole, she noticed that despite the apparent randomness of the drawings, they all seemed … logical. While the runes in and around the circles differed, the placement of the circles themselves were completely symmetrical, and each one gave the impression of being placed just so, neither too far from nor too close to each other or the core circle.

  


“It’s beautiful,” Daphne whispered, marveling at what looked like a cross between artwork and mathematical precision.

  


“Thanks,” he responded brightly, “but this is nothing on some of the stuff Grandmaster Tasya can do. The language of runes is practically her mother tongue. If these runes were words, this would be a children’s book next to a masterpiece novel compared to one of her arrays.”

  


Daphne blinked at him in surprise. “She sounds remarkable.”

  


“Incredibly so,” he proudly agreed, wondering what more his tattooed teacher would teach him when he returned.

  


“How much more is there?” Daphne asked, gently brushing her hand over the expanse of runes.

  


“We’re just about done,” he told her. “I just need to hook it up to Tracey’s core and set it in place.”

  


“You’re hooking this up to her magical core?” Daphne asked in mild alarm.

  


“Well, that doesn’t sound like it could go badly at all,” Blaise commented sarcastically.

  


“It’s fine,” he assured them, gently tracing his hands through the air above Tracey’s back as certain circles began lighting up and rotating. “I’m not trying to modify her core or anything. This is just setting up a link to her core so her magic will power the array. Trust me, that’s the easiest and simplest part of this whole thing.”

  


Still nervous, the two girls watched quietly as he continued to work, more circles lighting up with a faint golden glow and filling the glade with a gentle hum as the entire array began switching on.

  


His eyes narrowed in focus, he intently observed the results as he moved his hands again, gently rotating still more of the circles. With a slightly louder hum, the light spread to the lines connecting several of the circles.

  


The runes inside and around the circles began lighting up with a warm crimson glow as the array continued activating. After studying them carefully, he moved his hand to the circle at the base of the line reaching up to the small runic circle on her neck, and he gave it one quarter turn.

  


The light quickly spread along that line and the rune at the top, lighting up the final part of the array.

  


The hum deepened in pitch as the entire array lit up more brightly with the red-gold glow before, to the two girls’ shock, the array started shifting.

  


Circles suddenly began sliding overtop each other, the entire array collapsing into itself as the mathematically artistic map spread across Tracey’s entire back began folding inwards and condensing itself to a glowing point the size of one’s palm.

  


With a snap, the tangled glowing mass raced up the line reaching up to the back of Tracey’s neck, and the runic circle at the top, before collapsing even further.

  


Gradually, the hum dropped away as the light faded, revealing nothing of the mosaic that had coated the girl’s back. The only thing left was one small rune on the back of Tracey’s neck.

  


“Perfect,” he remarked with pleasure.

  


“That was supposed to happen?” Daphne asked somewhat shakily.

  


“Yep. That rune is the anchor point for the array,” he explained, pointing to the small rune on the back of her neck. “That’s the only part that needs to stay visible. The rest will only show up when called forth to be modified or removed.”

  


“But does it work?” Blaise asked.

  


“We’ll need to test that to find out,” he answered. “Tracey?”

  


There was no response from the girl.

  


“Tracey?!” Daphne called out in concern, only just realizing that the hyperactive girl had been uncommonly quiet and still for quite some time.

  


Blaise leaned over and looked at the immobile girl’s face, then promptly swam away, what sounded suspiciously like a half-smothered cackle erupting from behind her tightly pressed lips.

  


Before they could ask, though, her behavior was suddenly explained by another sound:

  


A faint snore coming from Tracey.

  


“… Really, Trace?” Daphne asked in exasperation as Blaise finally cut loose completely, laughing uproariously as she looked back at the tiny redhead draped inelegantly over the edge of the pool, happily snoring away with her face pressed into the mossy stone and completely oblivious to the new and potentially dangerous magic she’d just been a part of.

  


Sighing, Daphne delicately lifted her friend’s upper body from the stone … and then shoved her backwards into the pool.

  


Tracey burst up out of the water gasping and coughing her lungs free as she brushed her dripping wet hair out of her eyes so she could glare at someone.

  


“Oh, look who’s awake,” Daphne mildly observed, causing him to join Blaise in snickering. “Your tattoo’s done.”

  


Tracey promptly forgot how she was about to yell at Daphne as she began spinning circles in the water, craning her head over her shoulder in an attempt to see her back.

  


“I can’t see it!” she complained, finally admitting the futility of her efforts.

  


He chuckled at her antics. “It’s on the back of your neck, Trace. You won’t be able to see it.”

  


Her crestfallen face said she was less than thrilled with this revelation.

  


“But, you can see what it looks like when I give one to Blaise,” he pointed out.

  


She grin said this was a satisfying compromise.

  


“First, though, we need to make sure it works,” he told her, to which she nodded. Focusing, he extended a hair-thin tendril of magic towards her mind in a slow and careful attempt to read her mind using what felt fairly close to the method Professor Greased Lightning tried on him the day before. Rather than reach her mind, though, he suddenly felt his probe being rapidly bounced back and forth like a ball in table tennis, and all the while, his mind was filled with a cacophony of pure noise that ratcheted up several notches in intensity with every violent redirection.

  


Quickly, he withdrew the probe, a rather impressive headache throbbing in his temples after only a few seconds of contact.

  


“It works,” he announced, rubbing his forehead. “What did you feel, Trace?”

  


“The back of my neck itched, and it felt like someone was pushing on my forehead,” she answered, rubbing her neck. “Is that what it’s supposed to do?”

  


“ _Exactly_ what it’s supposed to do,” he told her happily. “The itching was the rune activating and drawing power. The pushing sensation was the array telling you the direction of the attack. Simple, but effective, if not quite as refined as what you could do with natural shields.”

  


“It’s still very impressive,” Daphne assured him, to which Blaise agreed with a nod and an impressed look.

  


Tracey, on the other hand, decided a more physical display was warranted.

  


“Thank you!” she squealed into his chest as she wrapped herself around him in a splashy hug. “It’s so cool!”

  


“Uh … you’re welcome, Trace,” he answered the soaking wet girl clinging to him somewhat awkwardly, reaching over her shoulder to trace his wand along her back, restoring her swimsuit to its previous appearance. “Blaise, your turn?” he asked the dark-skinned girl over his shoulder.

  


“Thought you’d never ask,” she replied with a smile, swimming over to take Tracey’s place against the edge of the pool.

  


* * *

  


Some time later, magically marked and dried, and dressed in their restored uniforms, they began the long trek back towards the castle. As they walked, Daphne gently rubbed the rune adorning the back of her own neck, having requested one for herself out of curiosity about the magic involved, along with the additional support it provided to her occlumency defenses, which was something she saw as worth pursuing. One could never be too secure, after all.

  


“Remind me again why I’m carrying you, exactly,” a certain bemused male voice prompted suddenly.

  


“Because I called dibs,” Blaise’s voice echoed sweetly in response. “And because you wouldn’t want me to trip and twist an ankle or something walking through the forest, now would you? I’m delicate, after all.”

  


“Oh, is that what it is? And here I thought Her Highness was just being lazy and trying to bum a ride,” he retorted dryly.

  


“Silence, peasant! I tire of talking,” Blaise pronounced in a ridiculously pompous tone of voice.

  


He gave her a flat stare. “You know I can just drop you and leave you to walk the rest of the way back to the castle, right?” he asked the dramatically snooty girl in his arms.

  


This gave her pause for thought. “Um … have I mentioned that I think you’re cute?” Blaise asked hopefully.

  


Everyone paused and stared at her in surprise.

  


“You have not,” he replied.

  


“Does that help?” she asked with a grin.

  


“… It doesn’t hurt,” he answered, continuing on with her in his arms.

  


She beamed smugly and settled more comfortably into his arms.

  


“Can we please talk about something else?” Daphne asked irritably as she tripped over yet another root. “Such as why your stupid training thing has to be all the way out in the bloody middle of nowhere?”

  


“Well, for one thing, it’s apparently safer in the Dark Forest than it is in the castle, what with yesterday’s whole troll nonsense,” he replied, to which Daphne reluctantly nodded in agreement.

  


“Where’d that thing come from, anyway?” Blaise asked from his arms.

  


“Maybe it smelled the food?” Tracey suggested as she walked with them, evidently too tired for more tree climbing.

  


“Nah, Quirrell probably let it in as a distraction for something,” he nonchalantly answered.

  


His announcement was followed by a crashing thump as Daphne finally tripped and fell completely in her shock.

  


“He what?!” Daphne demanded as she clamored back to her feet. “What are you talking about?”

  


Blaise and Tracey stared at him in open-mouthed confusion, clearly thinking the same thing.

  


He shrugged. “Well, think about it: Where was Quirrell when the troll showed up?”

  


Daphne thought for a moment. “Well, when he told everyone about the troll, he claimed it was in the dungeon, so he must have been down there.”

  


“And what would he have been doing there in the first place?” he asked. “His office is on the third floor, which is nowhere near the dungeons,” he pointed out. “I’m not seeing a reasonable explanation for why he would have been down there. More importantly, why wasn’t he simply at the feast to begin with? Not to mention the fact that I doubt the troll was actually in the dungeons in the first place, given that I found it a few floors away from there almost immediately after Hammy the Disgraced Theater Performer’s little show, and the thing didn’t exactly seem like it ran track. Plus, there’s how one of the only times old Stutters McTurbanface has actually seemed like a competent professor who knew what he was talking about was when he was teaching us about trolls, showing that he’s unusually familiar and experienced with the things, which is a bit suspicious when added on to everything else.”

  


Blaise and Tracey were staring even more open-mouthed, but not Daphne. Her eyes were darting back and forth as she thought furiously. “So you’re saying …”

  


“I’m saying that I think he let the troll in as a diversion for something, and he deliberately sent the professors to the wrong floor to buy himself even more time for whatever he was doing,” he theorized. “Hell, everyone was so busy chasing the troll or running for their common rooms that we all just left him alone on the floor of the Great Hall, so it’s not like he would have even had any difficulty slipping off by himself.”

  


Daphne’s face began darkening as the pieces started falling together for her in a way that she couldn’t argue with. “But a distraction for what?” she asked, still not understanding everything.

  


“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered. “But I’m guessing it has something to do with that third-floor corridor we were banned from entering on pain of death back at the welcoming feast. Admittedly, I don’t really know how things work in your world, but I’m hazarding a guess that something like that isn’t exactly common practice, so that means there’s probably something being guarded in there this year, for some reason, and whatever is worth guarding, someone else might consider worth stealing.” He frowned. “The only angle I really can’t figure out is Snape.”

  


Daphne was pulled out of her thoughts at that last part. “Snape? What about him?”

  


“His leg was injured,” he explained. “It was still fresh and bleeding, so it wasn’t something that happened earlier, or it would have been bandaged or healed by then. Given the timing, I’m guessing he slipped away from the pack of professors and tried going after whatever is hidden away on the third floor too, but he got caught by one of its defenses. I just can’t figure out whether he’s competing with Professor Squirrel to steal it for himself, or whether they’re working together. Or, who knows, it might be something else entirely. I’m not really sure.”

  


Daphne’s face twisted in a scowl. “ _That son of a bitch_ ,” she hissed.

  


“Which one?” Blaise asked, seeming somewhat dazed as she was caught up in working through everything he had said.

  


“Either! Both of them!” Daphne snarled. “I don’t care! Who knows how many people that troll could have killed if it came across more than one scared Gryffindor in a bathroom? It almost _did_ kill Harry!”

  


“Well now you’re just being insulting,” he mildly complained.

  


“Yeah, Daph. One stupid troll isn’t enough to kill Harry!” Tracey insisted, leaping to his defense.

  


“Thank you, Tracey,” he told her brightly.

  


Groaning, Daphne massaged her temples as they continued walking, ironically becoming even more graceful in navigating the forest underbrush now that she was barely paying attention to it.

  


“… What are we going to do about this?” Daphne asked quietly several minutes later, sounding slightly lost.

  


“Well, whatever it is they’re going after, I personally vote we steal it out from under all of them,” he suggested. “To me, that seems like a great way of screwing them all over.”

  


Everyone stared at him again, only this time, their expressions varied widely.

  


“You’re suggesting,” Daphne began slowly, a disbelieving look on her face, “that we, a bunch of _first-year students_ , try and break through what is probably a whole slew of potent magical defenses designed to guard against fully trained adult witches and wizards, and probably set in place by the Hogwarts professors, some of the most skilled and talented witches and wizards in our entire nation, and likely added to by _Dumbledore himself_ , all to steal … who knows what?”

  


“Mostly,” he answered simply. “But I agree that this’ll take more than just first-year students.” A wicked grin spread across his features. “It’ll take _Marauders_.”

  


Blaise let out a bark of laughter at this announcement, her eager look only growing more intense. Tracey merely cocked her head in confusion, though her excited look still remained.

  


Daphne just looked baffled. “Marauders?” she asked. “Do I even want to know what that is?”

  


“Probably not, but I’m going to tell you anyway,” he candidly replied. “They were a pranking group that was active back in the day, and that Snape is absolutely terrified about seeing again today. It seems appropriate to take on their mantle as we try and pull the rug out from under whoever all is playing these little games with us when we steal the stone out from under their noses. Kind of the ultimate prank, that.”

  


Daphne gave him a suspicious look. “Somehow, I get the feeling that won’t be all you have in mind for the Marauders, is it?”

  


“Of course not!” he happily assured her. “We’ll also be causing a bit of chaos and wreaking a bit of havoc for the school in general, not to mention making Snape’s life in particular a little less cushy and a little more infuriating.” He paused, and then added, “Oh, and maybe Malfoy as well, since I think tormenting that little coward should practically be considered a community service.”

  


“Not to mention immensely satisfying after the slap on the wrist he got for trying to kill you,” Blaise added.

  


“See? Perks galore!” he told Daphne.

  


The blonde merely eyed Blaise carefully. “… You knew about this already, didn’t you,” she accused, not really a question.

  


“Oh yeah! In fact, I’m already in,” Blaise answered happily. “Harry and I have just been trying to figure out how to get _you_ to join.” She looked at him and shrugged. “This seems to work.”

  


“What about me?” Tracey demanded with a pout.

  


“Well _obviously_ we knew you’d be a tough nut to crack,” Blaise told her with a grin. “We figured we’d need to take our time and devise a cunning strategy to convince you to join.”

  


Tracey collapsed into snort-giggles at her friend’s response.

  


Daphne sighed. “You’ll be doing this whether I agree to join or not, won’t you?”

  


“Absolutely,” he answered.

  


“Definitely,” Blaise agreed.

  


The blonde gave a theatrical groan, but there was a faint glimmer of fond amusement in her eye. “I suppose I have no choice, then, do I? After all, if I don’t keep you in check, then who’s going to make sure there’s anything of our poor school left standing after you’re all done tormenting it?”

  


“Well, certainly not me,” he assured them all.

  


“Me neither,” Blaise hastily agreed.

  


“Not it!” Tracey chimed in with a laugh.

  


Daphne rolled her eyes and chuckled at their responses.

  


“And you, Trace? Are you in?” Blaise cajoled.

  


“Well, someone should probably try and keep Daphne in check,” she sighed, sounding put out, much to Daphne’s indignation. “Fine, I’m in too.”

  


He grinned. “And then, they were four,” he commented as the forest around them began lightening, apparently coming up on the edge of the grounds.

  


“I just want to say, though,” Daphne spoke up, “if we’re going after whatever is hidden on the third floor, I think we should definitely figure out what it is _before_ we try and steal it. Going after what is quite possibly a magical artifact when we have no idea what it is or does just really doesn’t seem like a smart idea.”

  


He sighed. “She’s already trying to spoil our fun,” he complained to Blaise and Tracey.

  


Daphne snorted. “I should probably get a medal for that,” she muttered half under her breath.

  


He chuckled. “Fine. We’ll try to figure out whatever the thingamabob is before we fully go after it,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t investigate the defenses a bit first,” he countered.

  


Daphne paused, then relented. “Fine. But not today.” They emerged from the trees as she continued, limping slightly on her twisted ankles. “It’s been a really, _really_ long day, what with you making us hike cross country through that stupid forest.”

  


“Amen,” Blaise agreed with a groan as he set her on her slightly wobbly feet. “Seriously, that spot was pretty and all, but couldn’t you have found one that was closer? Maybe somewhere that _wasn’t_ miles away?”

  


“Sleepy,” a twig-covered Tracey chimed in with a yawn. “Need nap.”

  


“Hm,” he intoned thoughtfully. “You know what, you’re right. It _has_ been a long walk.” He looked over at the castle on the other side of the grounds. “And I don’t think I want to walk all the way back to the castle.” He struggled to keep a straight face as the girls looked at him curiously, wondering where he was going with this.

  


“I think I’ll just take a short-cut,” he decided, his voice cracking slightly as a laugh began bubbling through. Before they could ask what he meant, or he lost composure completely, he casually opened up a portal to his room.

  


“See you later!” he told the flabbergasted girls as he darted through, letting it snap shut behind him.

  


The girls stared at the spot in silence, shocked completely speechless.

  


“… Did … did he just … make a portal to the castle?” Daphne asked quietly, her eyes still bulging.

  


Blaise and Tracey silently nodded, still staring at the spot where the portal closed in astonishment.

  


As she started thinking everything through, however, Daphne’s expression rapidly turned from amazement to something much … _darker_.

  


“Are you telling me,” she hissed, a truly dangerous glimmer in her eye, “that he made us walk all the way through that bloody jungle for _nothing_?!”

  


Blaise blinked as the same thought occurred to her. “Oh, it wasn’t for nothing,” she explained, a look that was equal parts anger and amused respect lighting up her features. “It was to prank us.”

  


Tracey’s snort of amazement said that she was deeply impressed and amused by this, but Daphne … was not.

  


“HARRY POTTER, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”


	15. Is there a magical version of PETA? Because they should be all over this

“You know, I’m fairly certain a mature person would advise against this plan,” Daphne muttered as they walked through the hallways as part of a totally awesome and in no way stupidly reckless plan.

  


“Well, it’s a good thing we don’t know anyone like that, then,” the black-haired boy responsible for this particular plan pointed out.

  


“Yeah, that’d be boring,” Tracey agreed.

  


Daphne sighed.

  


“Actually, I’m surprised you’re even speaking to a certain someone after the crap he pulled on us yesterday,” Blaise observed, casting a curious look at the surprisingly non-violent blonde.

  


“Oh, believe me, I’m plotting my revenge,” she assured her, eyeing her soon-to-be victim venomously. “But for now, I think it’s more important to inform him of just how foolish this plan is.”

  


“Is not,” he eloquently rebutted as they climbed the stairs towards the third floor.

  


“Is too.”

  


“Is not! We need to find out what defenses we’re going to have to deal with,” he argued.

  


“By just opening the door and poking them with a stick?” Daphne asked in exasperation as they came upon the door to the forbidden corridor.

  


“You know, you’re not exactly sounding like a Marauder just now,” Blaise pointed out with a wry grin.

  


“Why? Because I’m being responsible?” Daphne dryly asked.

  


“Yeah. Stop that,” Tracey said. “Boo responsibility. Yay fun!”

  


“Well said,” he complimented with a sagely nod. And so, without further ado, he reached out to turn the handle.

  


The locked door simply rattled in its frame.

  


“Well, would you look at that? I guess that will put the kibosh on our plans to simply run through the defenses that we were explicitly warned would lead to us dying ‘a most painful death,’” Daphne complained about as insincerely as humanly possible.

  


“Oh, don’t worry, Daph! Where there’s magic, there’s a way!” He stepped away from the door and began shaking loose his hands.

  


“You know the _alohamora_ charm?” Daphne asked in surprise.

  


“Hmm?” He paused with his hands glowing. “Uh … actually, I was just going to blow the door.”

  


Blaise immediately darted away from the door, though she had to return to drag away a slightly oblivious Tracey.

  


Daphne sighed in reluctant surrender. “Would you like me to just unlock the door?”

  


“… Yeah, I guess that would work too,” he admitted, letting the glow around his hands die.

  


Daphne rolled her eyes as she took out her wand.

  


“ _Alohamora_ ,” she clearly enunciated, causing a muted rush of light to pass from her wand to the lock under the door handle.

  


He listened with great interest as the chorus of the spell echoed in his ears, but he was suddenly distracted by another song that began when the handle lifted and the door creaked open slightly.

  


“Huh. There was a ward on the door,” he interpreted.

  


“Are we in danger?” Daphne asked in alarm as she backed away from the door.

  


“I don’t think so,” he answered slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I think it might have been an alert ward, not a defensive one. It was letting someone know the door was opened.”

  


“So we should leave, then,” Daphne happily suggested.

  


“No, I’m guessing we have a few minutes before whoever it signaled can get here. We can afford a quick peek,” he explained, stepping forward to open the door. “Ladies first?” he suggested with a grin.

  


Daphne gave him a flat look.

  


Shrugging, he stepped through into the darkened room, a nervously shuffling Blaise behind him, with an eagerly sneaking Tracey taking up the rear.

  


Closing her eyes and muttering a quick prayer, Daphne followed suit.

  


As the door quietly clicked shut behind them, the quartet found themselves blinking around at the dark room filled with a curious musty smell none of them could place.

  


“The hell is that?” he asked as he stared at some shapeless mass he could see on the other side of the room. “It looks like a giant furry mattress.”

  


“What are you talking about? I can’t see anything,” Blaise complained.

  


Daphne had the answer to that, fortunately enough.

  


“ _Lumos_ ,” she intoned, lighting up the room with a soft bluish light.

  


She immediately regretted this decision.

  


With a massive, thundering snort, what looked like an enormous wall covered in shag carpeting began to move.

  


Their eyes tilted up and up as the wall rose on four furry legs the size of tree trunks before slowly turning, revealing three massive, yawning canine heads, each the size of an auto. However, while the colossal hound sleepily licked its chops, revealing glittering ivory teeth as long as they were tall, all six of its gleaming black eyes fell on the four minuscule intruders.

  


As the room suddenly thundered with the beast’s rumbling growl, there was only one word to describe the snarling monster.

  


“Puppy!”

  


“Tracey,” Daphne shakily corrected the happily awestruck girl, “that is not a puppy. That is death.”

  


“Blaise? Would you mind opening the door, please?” he quietly asked the trembling girl as he held the robes of the enamored Tracey to keep her from trying to pet the “puppy.”

  


“Yeah … sure …,” she replied, fumbling behind herself to find the door’s latch without taking her eyes of the three sets of wetly glistening fangs revealed by the creature’s snarling lips.

  


The rattling of the latch was muffled by the echoing thud of the monster’s massive foot as it stalked towards them.

  


“It would seem that the door is locked again, Harry,” a wavering Blaise informed him in a tone that sounded like she was discussing the weather. This was belied by the way her eyes looked like they were about to fall out of her face, though.

  


“I’ll get it,” a ghostly pale Daphne informed them as she backed her way towards the door, almost losing her balance as her wobbly knees were shaken by the floor-rattling thud of the creature’s next step.

  


“ _A-a-aloham-m-mora_ ,” Daphne stuttered.

  


They were very appreciative of the sound of the latch clicking open, but evidently, their canine friend was not.

  


The dog’s booming, angry barks were undercut by shrill screams as the beast lunged towards them while the girls all tried to crowd through the door at once, to very little success.

  


As for their male friend, however, he held his ground, thinking furiously as he tried to find a way to stall the creature long enough for the panicked girls to untangle themselves from each other and make it out the doorway. Unfortunately, as he stared up at the utterly massive three-headed dog lunging towards him, he found himself at a loss for anything he could do that wouldn’t amount to as much as giving the dog a very stern talking to.

  


_It occurs to me that coming here may have, in some manner or form, been something akin to a mistake_ , he thought dryly as his hands lit up and he readied himself for a fight he felt he had no hopes of winning.

  


As if in slow motion, he watched the creature’s steel-like muscles clench and coil beneath its midnight-black coat as it lunged, watched the strands of drool fall from its snarling lips, saw the unnerving intelligence shining out from all six of those malicious yellow eyes as they pierced right through his painfully small form … and he saw the creature’s nostrils flare as it came closer.

  


To his astonishment, the yelping monster backpedaled, sliding on the stone floor as it desperately threw its feet under it to stop its massive forward momentum and skitter back towards the far wall with a loud whine.

  


He stared in speechless shock as the creature had a fit. One head flattened its ears and lowered itself towards the ground as it whined piteously while staring at him from the corner of its eye. Another pinned its ears back and yapped at him incessantly as if warning him about getting closer. The third cocked its head as it stared at him curiously, but with the same frightened tilt to it that the other heads shared, and all the while, the entire beast was half rolled on its side as it slowly and constantly pushed itself against the far wall as if trying to scoot farther away from him.

  


As for the flabbergasted mage, he let the glow of his hands die as he took a step forward out of the shadows of the entryway, heightening the fit the monster was throwing until he took another step backwards.

  


“What the hell?”

  


Despite matching his thoughts perfectly, it was Daphne who said those words as she stepped forward and stood next to him, appearing as astonished as he was as she stared at the panicked beast.

  


“So … that’s a thing,” Blaise accurately observed.

  


“Apparently,” he agreed.

  


“Aww, it’s scared,” Tracey said tearfully as she watched the panicked dog continue to try and burrow its way through the far wall. Thankfully, Daphne was able to grab her arm to prevent the girl from moving towards the beast to try and comfort it.

  


“It can still kill you, Trace,” Daphne pointed out to the upset girl.

  


“But he’s scared! We need to try and help him!” she argued, sounding as angry as she was concerned.

  


“Here’s a suggestion: we leave. That should make him feel better, and I know it’ll do the same for me,” Blaise volunteered. “We all agreed? Great. Let’s go.”

  


She hurried from the room before anyone else could get a word out.

  


“She’s not exactly wrong,” he pointed out as he noted how the creature’s eyes were fixed unblinkingly on him. “He’ll probably calm down once we leave.”

  


“Or at least once you do,” Daphne pointed out to him, having observed the same behavior he did.

  


“Right,” he absently agreed as he stared at the beast thoughtfully. “Come on, Trace. He’ll be fine,” he assured the girl as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her out of the chamber.

  


“Are you sure?” she asked in concern as she looked back over her shoulder at the terrified animal.

  


“Of course,” he promised as they finally filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

  


Unfortunately, another problem soon made itself apparent, namely, the sound of shuffling footsteps and wheezing breaths coming from around a distant corner, all signature signs of the imminent arrival of their ever-kind and always merciful caretaker, Mr. Filch.

  


Thankfully, since the girls weren’t darting all over the place in a panic like they were a second ago, he had a solution.

  


“Time to go,” he said quickly, opening a portal directly beneath their feet.

  


The formerly motionless girls yelped as, from their perspective, the ground just disappeared, leaving them to land with a thud on the leaf-covered forest floor in a tangle of limbs.

  


Meanwhile, he stared with extreme amusement at his ever-graceful friends lying on the ground as he let the portal disappear above them.

  


“Ugh. What is it with you and this forest?” Daphne groaned as she climbed to her feet and began brushing off her robes.

  


“I don’t know. I just like it,” he answered with a shrug. “Plus, we know there’s not going to be other people to see us out here.”

  


“Yeah yeah,” Blaise interrupted. “Can we talk about what the deal was with that giant three-headed dog?”

  


“The cerberus, you mean,” Daphne corrected. “They’re supposed to be extremely effective guards, but I’ve never heard of one acting like that one did.”

  


“But what was it even guarding? It looked like just an empty room,” Blaise pointed out.

  


“There was a trap door in the middle of the floor,” he explained as he led them towards the edge of the forest. “I’m guessing it was guarding that.”

  


“So, all we need to do is find a way past an enormous, bi-polar cerberus to get at whatever everyone’s trying to protect and/or steal,” Blaise observed.

  


“We’re not going to hurt him, are we?” Tracey asked with some concern.

  


“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he assured her, earning himself a beaming smile in return. “But things aren’t as simple as just getting past the dog.”

  


“Why not?” Tracey asked curiously.

  


“Because I seriously doubt that the cerberus is the only defense. No way would they leave the security to an animal, cerberus or not. The Stone is going to be protected by a whole bunch of other defenses besides that dog. Getting through the trapdoor in one piece is probably just the first step.”

  


His brow furrowed in thought as he tried to guess at what other defenses they might have to deal with, on top of trying to figure out just why the hound acted so bizarrely after catching a whiff of his scent. As such, he didn’t notice the curious look Daphne shot him at his choice of words, any more than he really even noticed what he was saying or where his feet were taking him as they approached the edge of the forest.

  


As he glanced up, though, his eyes widened and a slow grin spread across his face.

  


“What is it?” Daphne asked upon spotting his expression. In response, he simply nodded towards the nearby cottage.

  


“… Of course,” Daphne muttered as she thought furiously.

  


“That’s okay. We don’t need to know what on earth you’re talking about. We’re good back here,” Blaise commented from where she stood next to Tracey.

  


“Think about it: where would they have gotten a beast like that in the first place?” Daphne asked. “More importantly, who would even be capable of controlling an animal that large?”

  


Blaise looked over at the cottage. “You think it was Hagrid?”

  


“Probably either him or Professor Kettleburn from Care of Magical Creatures,” he answered for her as they started walking towards the groundskeeper’s cottage. “But even if Professor Kettleburn provided the creature, he probably would have needed Hagrid to help control it, seeing as he’s missing a few limbs that I think he’d need to do the job.”

  


“And it’s not exactly a secret that Hagrid is a fanatic for large and dangerous animals,” Daphne continued. “So there’s no way he wouldn’t have insisted on being involved with them getting that thing set up in the castle.”

  


“True,” he agreed as they crossed a large pumpkin patch on the way to the man’s door.

  


“What are you hoping he’ll tell us? ‘Hello, kids. Here’s a notarized list of all the beast’s weaknesses. Oh, and here’s the secret to getting past everything after the giant dog, while I’m at it,’” Blaise suggested.

  


“Well, at the very least, he might let slip what other professors provided defenses beyond the dog,” Daphne replied. “That should hopefully give us a rough idea of what else we’ll be dealing with.”

  


“And who knows? He might accidentally give us an idea of how to get past the dog while we’re at it,” he suggested. “At least, I hope he does. Because somehow, I suspect that thing will find a way to get over the little fit it was having if we were to actually try opening that trap door, and I don’t exactly know where to find a rolled-up newspaper the size of a tree.”

  


“Wow. You’re actually taking the safe road and trying to find a way to deal with the creature properly,” Daphne observed, an undeservedly surprised look on her face.

  


“Well, of course I am. Aren’t I always about safety first?”

  


In answer, Daphne simply stared at him with a deadpan expression as he marched up the steps and knocked on the over-sized door.

  


“Jus’ a sec!” they heard a booming voice call out from inside. “Back, Fang. Back, yeh mangy dog!”

  


The door opened to reveal a wild-haired giant blinking down at them from above his bushy beard.

  


“Harry!” he boomed in obvious delight, much to the surprise of his visitors. “I was jus’ writin’ yeh a letter!”

  


He blinked at the man as he tried to figure out why a groundskeeper would be writing a letter to a random student he didn’t even know. He even turned to Daphne at his side to see if she had any answers, but she simply shrugged, apparently just as much at a loss as he was.

  


However, before anyone could say anything else, they were interrupted by the enormous, wrinkly hound that nudged its way past Hagrid’s leg to greet his guests, only to suddenly yelp and dart towards the far side of the hut, much to the confusion of his owner.

  


_Seriously, I don’t smell that bad … do I?_ a rather confused boy asked himself at seeing yet another reaction like that.

  


“Uh … jus’ a moment,” Hagrid told them as he stomped over to the door on the far side of his hut to let out the whining dog, which promptly took off like a shot into the forest and well away from the hut.

  


“Barmy dog,” Hagrid muttered before turning back to the first years clustered on his doorstep, which was apparently when he noticed the girls. “Who are you?”

  


“This is Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, and Tracey Davis,” Harry introduced. “They’re friends of mine.”

  


“Makin’ friends outside yer house, are yeh?” Hagrid asked, his beetle-like eyes crinkling in a smile. “Yer mother woulda’ been proud.” He gestured for them to come in.

  


“An’ prob’ly yer dad, too,” he heard Hagrid mutter in amusement as he and the trio of girls stepped past him into the small but cozy wooden hut. After a bit of bustling, Hagrid soon had them seated at a round table that reached up to their shoulders even when sitting in over-sized chairs that left their feet dangling off the ground. Taking an enormous copper teapot off the fire, Hagrid poured steaming tea into cups the size of soup bowls and handed out plates of rock cakes that apparently more than deserved the first part of their name, as they learned when attempting to take a bite. Of course, that didn’t stop Tracey from continuing to gnaw on hers determinedly.

  


“You said you were writing me a letter, Hagrid?” he finally prompted.

  


“Of course I was!” Hagrid responded with a grin-like twitching of his beard. “I wanted to meet yeh. Knew yer parents, I did. Damn fine people, them. Damn fine.” Those kind, beetle-black eyes looked him over. “You look like ‘em, you know. Not as much like yer dad as I woulda’ thought. Yer hair’s not as long or messy. But yer eyes … those are Lily’s eyes if ever I’ve seen ‘em.”

  


The bearded giant gave a slight cough as if trying to keep his voice from cracking as his guileless eyes welled up with emotion. Blaise gently laid a hand on his arm from her seat next to him.

  


Hagrid cleared his throat. “I’m alright, I’m alright,” he assured them. “Sorry, jus’ … they were good people. Good people taken far too soon.”

  


“I’m sure they were,” he told the man comfortingly. Daphne frowned at his lack of apparent reaction to the discussion of his parents, but didn’t say anything.

  


“But enough of that!” Hagrid said, apparently shaking off his melancholy. “What can ol’ Hagrid do fer yeh today?”

  


“Well, we were wondering about your job, and the kinds of animals you take care of,” he told him. “I’ve never dealt with magical animals before, so I was pretty curious.”

  


“Oh!” Hagrid replied, apparently rather pleased that they wanted to hear about his job and the animals he clearly loved. “Well, Professor Kettleburn handles the actual Care o’ Magical Creatures class. Yeh’ll get to take that in third year, if yeh want. But I do help take care o’ lots o’ animals ‘round here. There’s the thestrals that pull the carriages, fer one, and there’s some unicorns in the forest I take care of from time ter time. Oh, and there’s some hippogriffs out there too … and o’ course, there’s ol’ Fang, the mangy mutt. Yeh saw him when yeh got here.”

  


“It must be hard to take care of some of those animals,” Blaise suggested, a measured look in her eye. “Aren’t hippogriffs really big and fierce?”

  


He had to smother a grin as she gently prodded Hagrid towards the reason for their visit.

  


_Atta’ girl_ , he thought as he gently extended a mental probe towards the giant’s mind.

  


“Ah, they ain’t so bad,” Hagrid assured her. “So long as you know how ter’ handle ‘em, and most important of all, how to calm ‘em. ‘F yeh know that, yeh can work with any beast jus’ like pettin’ a kitten!”

  


He frowned at the broken, fleeting images he received through the probe rather than the detailed flashes of memories he should have been getting. It was as if the giant was draining magic from the probe, or as if the magic just wasn’t working on him as well as it should have.

  


Narrowing his eyes, he tried applying more magic to the connection.

  


“Yeah, I’m sure that _would_ be important,” Blaise agreed, apparently taking point in the interrogation, which he was certainly fine with, especially given the difficulty he was facing with the mental probe. “What’s the biggest animal you’ve ever worked with?”

  


“Oh, now tha’s a tuffy!” Hagrid declared, clearly beaming under his beard at her interest. “Let’s see … ‘ve worked with a sphinx, once. Right headache, that one was. Not sure they should really be called ‘beasts’, teh be hones’, wha’ with all their talkin’ and riddlin’ an’ whatnot. More like dealin’ with the ruddy stargazin’ centaurs in the forest than anythin’, with all the cryptic answers and such. Still, you do _not_ want to get ‘em riled up, let me tell yeh. Fierce as any beast then, they are, no matter their talkin’ and riddlin’. Let’s see, what else … oh, worked with a group that tangled with a chimaera, once, and _phew_! Now _that_ beast was a doozy! Mos’ vicious bloody thing I’ve ever seen. Beautiful, don’ get me wrong, but a mean streak a mile wide, an’ the teeth an’ venom an’ flames an’ such to back it up, too. Definitely don’ want ter get on their wrong side … not tha’ they really have anythin’ _but_ a wrong side, come to think of it …”

  


From the flashes of memories a certain black-haired boy was finally getting through the connection, he had to agree with the giant on that. With interest.

  


_The fact that anyone could call that thing beautiful_ … he wondered in amazement as he watched flashes of the beast tearing through men like cardboard.

  


He eyed the kindly giant, who now kind of scared him a little.

  


“That does sound scary,” Blaise said, even giving a delicate little shiver.

  


Amused, he looked over at Daphne, who flashed him a small proud smile and gave him a little nod that clearly said, _‘Yeah, she’s good.’_

  


“But the chimaera is from Greece, right?” Blaise continued as she cocked her head curiously. “All kinds of big and scary monsters come from there, don’t they?”

  


His eyes widened in amazement as he stared at the unbelievably cunning girl. After all, there was one “big and scary monster from Greece” in particular that they were currently trying to get answers about, and that was the cerberus currently residing on the third floor of the castle.

  


And she was an inch away from getting Hagrid to talk about it without them even having to raise his suspicions by asking about it directly.

  


“Wait, why are you asking about that? Aren’t we here to find out about the three-headed dog?” Tracey suddenly asked.

  


Daphne spewed some of her tea at their friend’s blunt question, while he simply let his head smack into the table with a thud, only barely drowned out by the sound of Blaise’s palm smacking into her own face.

  


As for their bearded host, he coughed and sputtered as he tried to respond, his mind flashing through memories of him playing with said three-headed dog and him handing over a small, grubby brown package to Professor Dumbledore.

  


“How d’you know about Fluffy?” the shocked giant finally managed.

  


All three of them paused and stared at him upon hearing his name for the monster.

  


“Fluffy?!” Daphne asked in astonished disbelief, certain she must have misheard him.

  


“Well, yeah. He’s gotta have a name, don’ he?” Hagrid defended.

  


“It’s perfect!” Tracey declared, her eyes shining.

  


“Yes, I suppose ‘Drooling Death Factory’ would have been just a little too on the nose, wouldn’t it?” Blaise asked in exasperation.

  


“Wait, how d’you know about him, again?” Hagrid asked, staring at them all suspiciously.

  


“We may have accidentally taken a wrong turning or two this morning when wandering around on the third floor,” Daphne explained in a very … “flexible” interpretation of events.

  


“And found ourselves staring straight into the jaws of death itself,” Blaise continued. “All three of them.”

  


“Shush, you! He was just scared,” Tracey defended in another flexible interpretation of events.

  


“Of what? Accidentally choking on us?” Blaise asked.

  


“Oh, come on, Blaise! I’m sure he’s really just a big ol’ softy once you get to know him!” Tracey insisted.

  


“Well, yeh got that right!” the man who called a chimaera “beautiful” happily confirmed. “So long as yeh don’ catch ‘im on guard duty, he’s as sweet as any puppy!”

  


The boy reading his mind received flashes of the giant and the three-headed dog playing fetch with a small log.

  


“I knew it!” Tracey celebrated.

  


“Why would they even keep something like that in the school, though?” Daphne asked, trying desperately to bring them back to the reason for their visit. “I mean, something that big, even if he can be ‘sweet as a puppy,’ he’s still got to be dangerous, right? What if he got loose?”

  


“Oh, nonsense,” Hagrid replied, brushing off her concern. “So long as yeh know how ter calm ‘im, the only thing dangerous about ‘im is his breath.”

  


The mage in the room leaned forward in interest, catching glimpses of a wooden flute and a haunting lullaby when the giant mentioned calming the creature.

  


“I mean, fer cryin’ out loud, yeh play ‘im a bit ‘o music, and he falls straight ter sleep! He’s no danger to anyone!” Hagrid continued.

  


They stared at the giant in stunned silence as he casually let slip the secret to getting past the three-headed dog.

  


_Reading his mind is starting to feel a bit redundant, now_ , he mused.

  


“… I shouldn’ta told yeh that,” the now extremely pale giant very accurately stated, a horrified look on his face.

  


“Hey, it’s fine,” Blaise told him soothingly, gently patting his arm. “It’s not like we’re going to try and sneak past the dog to steal whatever he’s guarding,” she very blatantly lied. “We’re just first years, after all. We were just concerned about how safe it was to have him in the castle. And now we know better. Thank you, Hagrid.”

  


The giant visibly relaxed at her words. “Righ’, righ’. It’s fine. Yeh’re only first years, after all. It’s fine.”

  


_Oh, she is very, very good_ , he observed with a grin.

  


“But best yeh not ask any more questions about ol’ Fluffy,” he told them all. “Not many would ‘preciate it very much. What he’s doin’ up there is strictly between Professor Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel.”

  


Sadly, he was distracted from watching what little of the giant’s face was visible under his wild mane of hair run through a gamut of colors as the man realized his little slip by Daphne’s fingernails, which were currently digging furrows into the back of his palm as she grabbed and violently squeezed his hand under the table in shock. The rest of her expression looked largely unaffected, though, excepting the slightly bulging blue eyes.

  


“Nicholas Flannel?” Tracey asked in confusion. “Who’s Nicholas Flannel?”

  


“No-one! He’s no-one!” Hagrid hastily sputtered, panic clearly etching every line of his form. “He’s, uh, the man who invented flannel shirts! Great man! But, uh, still no-one!” He rolled back one sleeve as if to look at a non-existent watch. “Wow, look at my wrist! I gotta go! Lock up when yeh’re done!”

  


In a remarkable display of quickness from such a large man, he bolted from the table and darted out the back door of his own house, all the while muttering furiously under his breath, “Shouldn’ta said that! I should _not_ have said that!”

  


“That was weird,” Blaise very accurately observed.

  


Almost zombie-like, Daphne released his now slightly bloody hand and stood up, staring blankly as she shuffled towards the center of the floor.

  


“Daph?” Tracey asked, confused by her friend’s behavior. However, Daphne didn’t answer her, simply continuing to stand there in speechless shock.

  


After a few more moments of blankly staring, however, she apparently regained her voice.

  


“ _HOLY SHIT!_ ”

  


The all rubbed their ringing ears as they stared at Little Miss Calm and Collected.

  


“You know, we’d kinda like an opportunity to scream ‘holy shit’ too,” Blaise informed the blonde. “You mind letting us in on the secret?”

  


She slowly turned around to look at them with dazed eyes. “You don’t recognize the name, do you?” she asked quietly, her mind clearly a million miles away.

  


They all shook their heads.

  


“Nicholas Flamel,” she began slowly, “is the only publicly identified maker of a Philosopher’s Stone, the ultimate creation of alchemy, and perhaps the single most coveted and sought-after artifact in the history of the world. Understandably so, as it can transform any metal into pure gold, and—as if that wasn’t enough—it can create the Elixir of Life, a tonic capable of curing any illness, healing any injury, and even making the drinker … immortal.”

  


Silence greeted this momentous news.

  


“Yeah, but is it shiny?” he blithely asked.

  


He ducked a can of tea leaves the outraged girl chucked at his head.

  


“Do you understand what this _means_?!” Daphne exclaimed, sounding half strangled from excitement and shock. “ _That’s_ what’s hidden on the third floor! The goddamn Philosopher’s Stone! One of the most priceless objects in human history! And if we can get our hands on it …” She trailed off, gasping for breath and grabbing her chest. Rummaging around the cottage, she found a paper bag and began rapidly breathing into it.

  


“Nice to see everyone’s remaining calm at this news,” he observed, earning himself a surprisingly potent glare from the girl over her bag.

  


“Of course, this also means the security is probably going to be insane past the dog, if they’re protecting something this valuable,” Blaise pointed out.

  


He looked at her in surprise.

  


“I just wanted to point that out before Daphne could,” Blaise said smugly before blowing a raspberry at the still hyperventilating Daphne.

  


Daphne’s lack of response was clearly a result of her excellent maturity and not because she was busy salivating at the thought of the Stone.

  


“Yeah, yeah, big deal. Magic stone. Whoopee,” Tracey commented, apparently unimpressed by the unimaginably valuable mystical artifact.

  


Daphne dropped her bag just to gasp in shock at the girl.

  


“What I want to know is who gets to keep Fluffy,” Tracey continued.

  


The other three looked at each other in confusion.

  


“Who gets to keep the ginormous deathhound?” Blaise asked. “I don’t know … maybe the Devil? Or if the pooch is too much for him, I guess maybe Hagrid?”

  


“We’re not going to keep him?” Tracey asked tearfully, a heart-broken look on her face.

  


“What exactly would you do with a giant three-headed dog, Tracey?” Daphne asked perplexed.

  


“Love him, pet him, feed my enemies to him …,” Tracey listed off.

  


“No,” Daphne said firmly.

  


“Blaise?” Tracey begged.

  


“As amusing as the image of you chasing after Malfoy while riding on the back of an enormous three-headed dog is,” Blaise began with a grin, “I find it even more disturbing. Absolutely not.”

  


“Harry?” Tracey desperately turned to him.

  


“Nope!” he replied, covering his eyes to protect himself from the sight of her enormous weepy eyes and trembling lower lip.

  


Tracey folded her arms and sank lower in her chair. “Meanies,” she muttered.

  


“Fascinating as this conversation may be, don’t you think we should maybe move it out of Hagrid’s hut?” Blaise asked the group. “I mean, eventually the poor guy will remember it’s his house and try to come back.”

  


“Okay, seriously. You need to stop being so reasonable. That’s Daphne’s shtick,” he told her, though only Tracey seemed to appreciate this. Regardless, they followed her suggestion and started filing out of the giant’s hut.

  


“Just think,” Daphne whispered dramatically as they headed across the grounds back to the castle, “with the Stone in our possession, unlimited wealth and power will be _ours_!”

  


“You’re going full supervillain again, Daphne,” Blaise informed her. “Never go full supervillain.”

  


“Fool! Our Dark Lady is well beyond the ranks of mere supervillains!” Tracey declared with a mad cackle.

  


“And now you’ve made Minion Tracey return. Well done,” Blaise complained to the still greedily grinning blonde.

  


“We were never gone! Merely biding our time, foolish mortal!” Tracey boasted.

  


“Please save us from this madness, Harry,” Blaise requested in deadpan.

  


“What, are you kidding me? I’m with them,” he informed her. “With that in our hands, the world shall be ours!” He let out a loud, booming laugh full of malicious victory.

  


Blaise hung her head as she once again lamented her curse of sanity in a world gone mad.

  


However, as they approached the main doors to the castle, the quietly plotting Daphne suddenly stopped dead.

  


“Daph?” he asked as he took in her furiously thinking face.

  


“What is it?” Tracey asked.

  


Daphne’s head raised. “You knew,” she accused, staring directly at him.

  


“Uh … you might need to give me a little more detail than that,” he informed her, his face furrowing in confusion.

  


“You knew it wa–,” she cut off and glanced around furtively as she lowered her voice. “ _You knew it was the Philosopher’s Stone that was hidden on the third floor_ ,” she whispered, still staring at him intently.

  


“I did?” he asked in bemusement. “Well, way to keep that to yourself, Daphne! That would have been nice to know earlier!”

  


“Yesterday, in the forest,” she defended, refusing to be put off, “you said something about us stealing ‘the Stone’. With everything that was happening, I didn’t really catch it. But again today, after we met Big, Mean, and Drooly on the third floor, you said, ‘The Stone is going to be protected by a whole bunch of other defenses besides that dog.’” Her face was both accusatory and confused. “You knew it was the Stone before we ever spoke to Hagrid.”

  


He stared at her in shock as he processed her words. He ran through the events of that day, and their discussion from yesterday.

  


Confusion and alarm flooded his body as he remembered saying those words, remembered mentioning “the Stone” … but he had no idea where they had come from.

  


“Harry? What’s going on?” Blaise asked as she watched his face lose color.

  


“… I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

  


“Well, then, why didn’t you tell us you knew about the Stone?” Daphne demanded, her eyes flashing. “And how did you find out about it?”

  


He slowly met her eyes. “I didn’t.”

  


She blinked as she studied his face, taken aback by the earnest confusion she saw. “But … then how–”

  


“I don’t know,” he preemptively answered, reflexively rubbing his chest as he tried to figure out how he had referred to the Stone … before ever having found out about it. “But … I think someone’s messing with my mind.”

  


“What?!” Daphne blurted out, her eyes widening in alarm.

  


“That’s the only thing I can think of,” he explained. “I didn’t know about the Stone before today, I swear. But that means … if I was already mentioning the Stone yesterday …”

  


“You think, what, someone planted thoughts about the Stone in your mind?” Blaise asked, confused and alarmed.

  


“… Maybe,” he quietly replied, his eyes narrowed in thought.

  


“Snape?” Daphne asked, her face tightening in anger.

  


He slowly shook his head. “No … this is something else …”

  


Tracey reached out and grasped his hand that was steadily and subconsciously rubbing his chest. As he looked at her, she gently squeezed his hand as she gave him a small, concerned smile.

  


Gradually, the tension left his shoulders as he shot her a warm, grateful smile in return. “Thanks, Trace.”

  


Grinning, she gave him a bruising, yet comforting, hug.

  


“So, apparently I’ve got this to deal with too, this year,” he commented in exasperation. “Lovely.”

  


“ _We_ have this to deal with,” Daphne corrected, to which Blaise agreed with a fierce nod.

  


“No,” he answered firmly. “This is something _I’ve_ got to deal with.”

  


All three of them looked like they were about to contest that claim rather strongly.

  


“My mind,” he pointed out.

  


Daphne glared at him, but didn’t argue the point.

  


And so that was everyone’s mood when they finally made their way inside the castle and were almost immediately treated to the dulcet tones of Draco Malfoy’s nasally voice coming from up ahead.

  


“Look at this pathetic squib,” Malfoy sneered as he and his bookends huddled around a small, shuffling figure. “Off to play with your plants again, Longbottom? I suppose it’s just as well. God knows you’re no good at anything else.”

  


He and his “friends” laughed mockingly at the figure’s mumbling reply, whatever it was.

  


“Well, would you look at that? I guess this is my lucky day,” the emotionally jumbled green-eyed boy eager observed, spotting an opportunity for a bit of venting. “I’ll catch you all later,” he told the girls as he made a beeline for the group.

  


“How come we’re not invited to pester Malfoy?” Tracey complained to Blaise in a pout.

  


“Because we get to enjoy being the peanut gallery instead,” Blaise pointed out, settling in to watch the show.

  


While this satisfied Tracey, Daphne was not so easily dissuaded. “If he thinks we’re done talking about this, then he is going to be _sorely_ mistaken,” she promised as she glared after his retreating figure.

  


“Relax, Daphne. Just watch bad things happen to Malfoy. You’ll catch Harry later,” Blaise consoled her.

  


Daphne paused. “I suppose I could spare a few minutes for that,” she admitted.

  


“That’s the spirit!” Blaise happily complimented.

  


* * *

  


“You know, boys, I’ve been looking for a chance to practice my leg-locking jinx. Maybe Longbottom here would be willing to oblige?” The hulking boys laughed cruelly as Malfoy drew his wand.

  


“Like always, I see that you’re just brimming with honor and courage, Draco,” he observed.

  


The bullying trio spun around in surprise at the sound of his voice, allowing him his first glance of their intended victim, namely, a quivering, slightly pudgy boy wearing Gryffindor colors huddled against the wall, who was now staring at him wide-eyed.

  


“Well, look who it is. The famous Harry Potter, once again swooping in to save the day,” Malfoy sneered, pointing his wand at him. “You just can’t stop yourself from playing the hero, can you, Potter?”

  


“If I’m the hero, then what exactly does that make you, Malfoy?” Harry asked.

  


Malfoy snorted. “Someone who doesn’t take kindly to worthless squibs parading about our school,” he declared.

  


He cast an amused look at the boy’s scowling, troll-like companions. “Then you’ve picked some interesting company. Can your bodyguards even cast magic? I don’t think I’ve seen them cast a single spell since we’ve been here.”

  


Thing One and Thing Two responded to his insinuation by growling and cracking their knuckles at him, but he noticed that they still didn’t draw their wands … assuming they even had any, which he was seriously starting to doubt.

  


“Maybe they just don’t need magic to deal with a pest like you,” Malfoy sneered, showcasing an amazingly selective memory, given the outcome of their first meeting on the train. “Me, however,” Malfoy continued, pointing his wand at him more deliberately, “I enjoy cursing annoying little shites like you. Would you like to see?”

  


He stared at the blustering idiot in completely undisguised amusement and condescension before allowing a serious look to come over his face.

  


To Malfoy’s surprise, he didn’t step back or draw his own wand. Instead, he stepped forward until the tip of the posturing boy’s wand was pressed directly over his heart.

  


“If you’re going to curse me, Malfoy,” he warned him in a cool, quiet tone, “I suggest you try very, _very_ hard to make it count. Or else you’ll hit the ground before I do.”

  


Malfoy’s eyes widened in practically his trademarked mixture of fear and anger as he stared down the boy just completely ignoring the wand at his chest or the almost snarling Crabbe and Goyle mere inches from leaping on him. Instead, his completely unconcerned green eyes simply stared directly into Malfoy’s own.

  


After a moment of silence, Malfoy lowered his wand and forced a smirk onto his face. “Nah. You’d just end up running to the teachers again like you did in flying class,” Malfoy declared, once again demonstrating his remarkable ability to rewrite past events to suit his whims.

  


“C’mon, guys. Well catch Longbottom for spell practice later,” Malfoy said, leading his impotently growling pets away.

  


“Booooo!” Tracey’s voice suddenly sounded from the other side of the corridor. “C’mon! Where was the violence? The _action_?! Boo!”

  


“I agree,” Blaise stated from beside her. “Zero out of ten! Complete letdown!”

  


Thankfully, his hecklers were soon dragged away by an eye-rolling Daphne, leaving him alone with the confused and timid boy still huddled against the wall.

  


“Sorry about that,” he told the boy. “They, uh … they have issues,” he said bluntly, though with no small amount of amusement.

  


“Uh … it’s okay, I guess,” the boy told him nervously as he slowly straightened and pulled his book-bag on properly. “Thanks for that,” he told him gratefully, if still downtroddenly. “Stepping in with Malfoy, I mean,” he hastily clarified. “I’m Neville, by the way. Neville Longbottom.”

  


“Nice to meet you, Neville Longbottom,” he told him. “Can I ask you a question?”

  


“Uh … sure, I guess,” the surprised Neville responded.

  


“Why were you letting them treat you like that?” he asked in pure confusion.

  


Neville’s face fell dramatically. “Because they’re right,” he said morosely. “I _am_ practically a squib.”

  


“So?” he asked bluntly, visibly taking Neville aback. “Even if that’s true, why does that give them the right to treat you like dirt?”

  


“I …,” Neville hesitated, clearly confused by the question and at a loss for how to answer it. “There were three of them,” he replied instead. “And Crabbe and Goyle are a lot bigger than me. It’s easier to just let them have their fun than to make a big deal about it. It’s safer.”

  


“Your dignity means so little to you?” he asked in confusion, earning himself another baffled look from Neville, who clearly was not expecting anything along the lines of this conversation. “You’d rather let them torment you than even try to fight back?”

  


Neville gaped at him, clearly struggling to find the words to respond. “Crabbe and Goyle are way bigger than me!” he repeated. “And Malfoy is way better with magic than me! What could I do?”

  


“Fight,” he answered simply, earning another utterly lost and confused look from the boy.

  


“But … I’d lose!” Neville exclaimed, looking at him like he’d lost his marbles.

  


“So?” he asked in response. “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose. Sometimes, all that matters is that you’re willing to fight.”

  


“Oh, sure, that’s easy for you to say!” Neville accused, seeming angry. “You could probably tear them apart with your bare hands! We’ve heard the rumors of what happened on the train. You could probably beat them without them landing a single curse. I can’t!”

  


He raised an eyebrow at the boy. “You really think they couldn’t have cursed me?” he asked in a tone that made it clear he thought this was ludicrous.

  


Neville looked at him in confusion. “Um … couldn’t they?” he asked uncertainly.

  


“Of course they could have!” he responded in amused exasperation. “Malfoy had his wand pressing against my bloody chest! Of course he could have jinxed me!”

  


Neville blinked at him. “But … but then why were you telling him to do it?” he asked, utterly baffled.

  


“Because I wasn’t going to back down for the likes of him,” he explained as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “I didn’t care if he landed a curse. I didn’t care if he landed a hundred curses! I didn’t care if his pet trolls somehow managed to beat me black and blue. What mattered was that I was willing to face him anyway. The fact that I actually know how to fight is practically irrelevant. I’m not afraid of them. The fact that you are means they have power over you. Worse, it’s power that _you_ are giving them. And they don’t deserve it.”

  


Neville stared open-mouthed at him. “But … they can hurt me! And who knows what jinxes and curses Malfoy can put on me!”

  


He gave the boy his own confused look. “And that’s worse then letting them make you their own personal whipping boy from now until the end of time?” he asked.

  


Neville finally seemed at a complete loss for words as he stared at him. However, this time, it wasn’t because his words didn’t make any sense.

  


It was because they did.

  


“Come with me,” he told the boy, turning and heading back out the doors of the castle.

  


“What? Why? Where are we going?” Neville asked in confusion as he hurried after the strange boy.

  


“We are going to defeat your fear of Malfoy and his goons,” he answered, never breaking his stride. “And if we can manage it, your fear _period_.”

  


“But … you can’t do that,” the befuddled Neville argued inanely.

  


“Watch me,” he countered, still leading the way. However, he turned to the boy at his side as they continued walking across the grounds. “I assume this is something you actually want.”

  


“It’s not possible,” Neville answered sadly.

  


“I didn’t ask if you thought it was possible,” he countered roughly, forcing them both to a complete stop. “I asked if it was something you wanted.”

  


Neville raised his eyes, staring straight into the resolute green eyes of this strange person.

  


“It is,” he said honestly.

  


“Are you sure?” he asked Neville challengingly, still not breaking eye contact.

  


Neville’s shoulders slowly squared as he lifted his chin. “It is.”

  


“It will be rough,” he warned the boy.

  


“I can handle it,” he declared. “… right?” he quickly asked, his nervous personality bleeding through.

  


He smiled at the timid boy. “You’re damn right you can, Neville,” he said without hesitation, turning and continuing to lead them both across the grounds.


	16. Welcome to Fight Club

“Where are we going?” Neville asked as they headed across the grounds.

  


“Just here,” he answered as he brought them to a stop near the shore of the lake.

  


“Why here?” Neville asked in confusion.

  


“Because it doesn’t look like we’ll be disturbed out here,” he replied as he looked around, confirming that there was no one in sight.

  


“Oh,” the timid boy meekly replied, drawing a look from his companion.

  


“So, what’s your story, Neville?” he asked, putting his hands in his pockets and looking at the boy expectantly.

  


“M-my story?” the boy squeaked nervously, and in a fair amount of confusion.

  


“Yeah, your story. Tell me about yourself. What’s your family like? How’d you get here? Why do you think you’re a squib”

  


“I– …,” the boy started, once more appearing overwhelmed by the other’s train of thought. “Um, well, I grew up with my grandmother, mostly.”

  


“What’s she like?” he asked, curious to hear how the boy described her.

  


“Uh … strict, I guess,” Neville answered first, somewhat tellingly. “Very proud of our family name, wants me to uphold it and do it proud.” The boy withered a bit. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at that.”

  


He kept his expression blank as he slowly nodded. “And the rest of your family?”

  


“Fine, I guess,” Neville said, looking confused about the entire line of questioning. “They were all really afraid that I was going to turn out all muggle, though. My Great Uncle Algie would even try to catch me off guard to force some magic out of me when I was little, and one day, it worked. He had come ‘round for dinner one night and was hanging me out an upstairs window by my ankles when Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced … all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased. Gran was even crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here. They thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so happy he bought me my toad.”

  


_Holy fucking hell!_

  


He had more than a little difficulty keeping his expression level upon hearing this story of the near murder of a young Neville, and how he and his family were all apparently completely unphased by it.

  


“And so Gran gave me my father’s wand, made me promise to be worthy of it, and now, here I am,” Neville finished, though he suddenly looked nervous and fingered his wand as he did, as if he’d said too much.

  


“And you two exchange letters while you’re here, I assume?” he asked, eyeing the other boy’s wand, but not saying anything about it, or the obvious loss it represented, for the moment.

  


“Well, yes,” Neville answered in surprise.

  


“And what does she think about how you’ve been doing here?”

  


Once again, Neville wilted. “She’s … not happy. I’m doing terribly in my classes, I can barely cast anything, and she … she …,” Neville hesitated.

  


“Let me guess … she thinks you’re disgracing your family name with your performance,” he bluntly interpreted.

  


Neville stiffened, but nodded sadly. “She’s not wrong, though. My father—her son—was a great wizard, one of the best. I’m barely more than a squib, and everyone knows it.” A tear started trickling from his eye. “Every time Gran looks at me, I always see disappointment,” he admitted as the floodgates opened. “I know she’s comparing me to my father … and I know I’m falling short.” His shoulders shook as he took in a hiccoughing breath. “And that was all before I came here. What’s it going to be like now, when we both know just how terrible I am at magic?”

  


He stood silently and watched as tears started falling down the boy’s cheeks, his expression still level.

  


“May I see your wand?” he asked quietly.

  


Neville didn’t answer, simply reaching out and handing it to the other boy.

  


“Thank you,” he said, tucking the wand behind his waist and gently lifting the other boy’s damp chin until he was looking him square in the face.

  


“W-what are yo–,” the confused and crying boy began before he was interrupted by the other boy’s fist crashing into his mouth.

  


Neville yelped and clapped his hands to his face. As he pulled his hands away, he stared in shock at the smear of blood from his split lip, his tears utterly forgotten. He looked at the expressionless boy in a mixture of confusion and anger.

  


“What the hel–?!”

  


This time, his nose was the target of the other boy’s punch, and he staggered back with another pained yelp as he clutched his nose.

  


By now, the light spark of anger in his eyes had flared into a roaring flame as he glared at the other boy in outraged fury. “Stop that!” he yelled, his teeth stained crimson from his bleeding nose and lip.

  


His next attack wasn’t the tightly controlled and relatively light blow that the previous two were. This time, he outright slugged Neville in the stomach, forcing the groaning boy to hunch over grabbing his stomach before looking up with pure, unadulterated rage.

  


_There we go_ , his attacker noted in satisfaction.

  


With an inarticulate yell, Neville threw himself at the other boy. His punches were wild and uncontrolled, but powerful, fueled as they were by rage.

  


The other boy stood silently as blows rained down on him, neither dodging nor blocking the boy’s attacks as the snarling Neville struck his face, stomach, sides, and everything and anything else he could reach. He felt his own nose break under the other boy’s fist, tasted blood from his torn and bloody lips, and still Neville kept on, until his breaths came in panting gasps and his punches came slower and slower, eventually stopping.

  


Neville stood there, fury still in his eyes as he panted from both exhaustion and sheer emotion as he stared at his bloody opponent.

  


“Feel better?” he asked Neville, turning his head and spitting blood.

  


“What is this?” Neville asked in confusion.

  


“That, Neville, is called ‘anger’,” he explained, feeling the ever-present fire in his veins start repairing the damage to his body as he wiped blood from his mouth. “Handy little emotion, that,” he continued. “And one you’ve been far, _far_ too long without, I think.”

  


“What?” Neville asked, raising his hands defensively as the other boy stepped closer. However, his attention was pulled from the other upon feeling massive spikes of throbbing pain from his bleeding fists.

  


“Some light fractures,” the other boy interpreted as he took the boy’s hands. “Fair amount of torn cartilage. Not to mention broken skin.” Neville’s eyes widened as his hands flared with heat and healed before his eyes, the skin pulling together and the stabbing pain from deep inside his knuckles fading away to nothing. “That tends to happen when you throw a bunch of bare-handed punches at someone’s face if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  


“What are you talki–”

  


Once again, he was interrupted by the other boy’s fist lightly, but still painfully, popping him in the face. However, as Neville instinctively punched back, his fist was caught in the other boy’s hand.

  


“No no no,” he told Neville, “not like that. Clench your fingers and lock them with your thumb, like this.”

  


Neville stared in confusion as the other boy adjusted his fingers into a proper fist. But before he could say anything, he had to throw his hands up to block the other boy’s return blow.

  


“Better,” he praised as Neville threw his own punch. “But don’t cock your arm all the way behind your body when you throw a punch. It doesn’t give you enough extra power to be worth it, usually. It just slows you down and advertises your movements. Instead, bring your arms close to your body and snap them out, like this.” He positioned himself into a boxer’s stance and jabbed his fist at the clumsily blocking Neville. “Always return to this position. It’s simple, and it keeps you ready to defend and attack. Great for a beginner like you.”

  


“What the hell is all this?!” Neville finally demanded, even as he copied the other boy’s position and successfully, if still clumsily, blocked two of the other boy’s punches.

  


“ _Malfoy_ ,” he barked, jabbing at Neville’s face. “ _Your grandmother_.” He slugged Neville in the stomach, the boy not managing to block that blow. “ _Your great uncle Algie_.” His right hook caught Neville in the cheek. “ _Your great aunt_.” He blocked Neville’s punch and popped him in the nose, making it resume bleeding. “Every single one of them have convinced you that you are less, and worse, _you’ve allowed it!_ ”

  


“What the hell are you talking about?!” Neville demanded, copying the other boy and jabbing at his face and torso, though he was more adept at blocking than Neville was, so the blows didn’t land.

  


“Your family was so ashamed of the mere thought that you might not have magic, they were willing to risk killing you!” he accused, jabbing twice at Neville’s face. However, the boy had improved his defense by copying his technique, so the blows didn’t land. “How old were you when your great uncle was hanging you out that window? Ten years old? _Nine?!_ And no one, not your great aunt, not your grandmother, not even _you_ , thought anything was wrong with this?!” His next blows had more force behind them as he struck at Neville’s stomach, though the other boy blocked them. “No one even told him to stop! Your great aunt apparently just handed him a fucking snack as if this was the most normal thing in the world!” Neville finally started to copy his movements and weave from side to side as he jabbed at him, though Neville’s eyes were furious and confused. “If you hadn’t had magic, you would have died that day! And there was no guarantee you would have survived that fall even with magic! But did your family care? Did _you_?! NO! They were willing to kill you rather than bear the shame of having a member of their family be non-magical.” His uppercut caught Neville square on the chin, snapping his head back. “Where’s your anger over this?! These people are your family! They’re supposed to love you! To care about you! To _protect you_!” He leaned his head back to avoid Neville’s own uppercut. “ _And they tried to kill you!_ ”

  


“We’re an ancient magical family!” Neville yelled back, throwing wild, furious haymakers at the taller boy. “It was important that I have magic!”

  


“More important than your life?!” he demanded, catching Neville in the ear with a left hook. “Your family thinks so little of you?! _You_ think so little of you?!”

  


“Shut up!” Neville shouted, throwing punch after punch in a fury, at least until his circling opponent suddenly pushed back, forcing Neville to trip over the rock he hadn’t seen and fall flat on his back.

  


“You are worth more than that, Neville!” he growled as the pudgy boy scrambled up out of the dust and raised his fists once again. “You are worth more than some name, or the respect of some dusty old fucks who would rather torment and kill a young boy than bear the shame of having a member of their family be something _different_. Something _freakish_! You! Deserve! _More!_ ”

  


“And how would you know?!” Neville howled, resuming the attack.

  


“BECAUSE I’M _YOU_ , YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” he shouted back, belting him in the face so hard that Neville ended up flat on his back once again.

  


He stood over the panting, groaning boy. “ _No one_ ,” he hissed, “not your family, not your teachers, not some idiot blonde schoolboy with a daddy fetish— _NO ONE—_ has the right to convince you that you are less.” Neville lay there silently, staring up at him with an unreadable expression. “No one has the right to make you feel ashamed of what you are … and what you are not,” he continued, still tasting blood from his split lip. “You don’t owe anyone anything, because at the end of the day, none of their opinions mean shit. It’s _you_ that you have to face in the mirror every goddamn day. It’s _you_ that you have to answer to. And it’s _you_ that you have to live with for the rest of your life.” He spit blood off to the side. “They don’t deserve the power to dictate your life. To make you feel weak, or afraid, or ashamed.” He held out a hand to the boy. “So don’t give them that power.”

  


For a long moment, the blood-stained Neville simply stared at that hand silently. However, finally, he raised his own torn, bloody hand and clasped it, and allowed the other boy to help pull him to his feet.

  


“Courage isn’t something you’re born with,” he explained to Neville. “It’s a choice that you make, just like fear. You can choose to make yourself the cringing pet of anyone who looks at you funny, or you can choose to tell them to fuck off, and simply be who you want to be. It’s that simple … and that hard.”

  


Neville wiped his mouth free of blood. “It is, huh?” he asked quietly.

  


“Yup,” he answered. “If you want to fear something, like your grandmother’s disappointment, or Malfoy’s curses, then those things will always control you, shaping your every move like a leash. But you can choose to tear that leash in half. You can choose not to fear them. And if you do …” He gave the boy a bloody grin. “… you have no idea what you can be capable of.”

  


Neville nodded slowly, though he winced and grabbed at his now thoroughly broken nose. “And all of this?” he asked, gesturing around them.

  


“I find that anger is the easiest way to conquer fear,” he answered. “And the way you’ve apparently just been laying down as a doormat for everyone from your family to Malfoy …,” he shrugged, “anger is apparently something you need to get more in touch with.” He reached out and touched the boy’s nose, ignoring Neville’s wince as he healed it. “It’s what finally pushed you to fight back against me, after all,” he explained. “Maybe it’ll help you defend yourself elsewhere, too.” He grimaced apologetically. “If I knew a gentler way to make this point, I would have used it, but it was a painful lesson for me, too, so this is kinda the only way I know, and I’m sorry about that. But it was still something you needed to learn.”

  


“It’s okay … I think,” Neville told him somewhat uncertainly, though still with more confidence than he had when they arrived.

  


However, he shook his head at the boy. “Don’t rush to forgive me without thinking about it,” he told Neville, earning a look of surprise from the bruised and battered boy. “Forgiving others too easily and too quickly is part of what keeps you under everyone’s thumb. Sometimes, it’s better to ignore the pressure to simply make things right by forgiving others, and to instead actually think about it and decide whether it’s something you actually want to forgive or not. This keeps others from taking advantage of you so easily, and ensures you actually stay true to yourself.”

  


“… You’re weird,” Neville decided.

  


“Thank you,” he told the boy sincerely, earning a snort. “Now come on, put your hands back up.”

  


“Wait, why? I thought we were done?” Neville asked, though he was quick to do as he said, even if this was mostly just to block the sudden jabs he made at Neville’s face.

  


“What, are you kidding? You still have a lot to learn if you’re going to beat the shit out of Malfoy later,” he told him, blocking Neville’s blows and returning a flurry of his own.

  


“I’m doing what now?” Neville asked in confusion.

  


“Right now, you’re working on your footwork,” he told him, snapping his feet out to kick Neville in the shins to force him to actually move his feet like he needed to. “And later, you’re going to goad Malfoy into challenging you to a duel, and you are going to hand his ass back to him on a silver platter.”

  


“I am?” Neville responded, bouncing on the balls of his feet much like his opponent. “Wait, what if I don’t want to?” he asked suddenly, already applying what they’d just been discussing.

  


“Don’t you?” he asked with a grin as he broke through Neville’s guard and slugged him in the face. “The boy who’s tormented you, looked down on you, called you scum … you really don’t want to leave him a bloody puddle of tears on the ground?”

  


Neville didn’t answer for a moment, his eyes flaring with anger from the blow, even if he didn’t lose control and start flailing at him like in the beginning. This time, Neville simply added more power to his punches as he pondered the other’s words. “That … actually sounds pretty nice,” he finally answered.

  


“You’re damn right it does,” he answered with delight, continuing to work on improving Neville’s form. “Especially when you use nothing but ‘all muggle’ means to do it.”

  


“Wait, when I use what?”

  


* * *

  


“There he is,” he he told the nervously shifting Neville as he spotted Sir Flounce and his hulking entourage headed towards the Great Hall for dinner later that evening. “Feeling confident, Neville?”

  


“I’m not sure. I don’t know what confidence feels like,” the Gryffindor replied uncertainly.

  


He rolled his eyes at him. “Come on, you’re fine. You’ve got this,” he assured him, grabbing him by the shoulders and directing him towards blondie.

  


“No, I don’t. I don’t think I can do this,” Neville whispered nervously. He had since had his wounds and clothes fixed, and he felt as fresh as if he’d just woken up from a long, deep sleep. However, despite all this, he still exuded a certain degree of nervous skittishness, especially now.

  


“Of course you can. The real question is whether you want to,” his black-haired, green-eyed coach corrected.

  


“Fine. I’m not sure I _want_ to do this,” Neville complained instead.

  


“Of course you want to do this! How could you even say that?”

  


Neville groaned in exasperation.

  


“Look,” he said, turning Neville around to face him, “in all seriousness, there’s a reason I think you should go through with this. As of right now, everything we’ve said? Everything we’ve done? That’s all still just in here.” He tapped Neville’s forehead. “Until you actually put any of this into practice, it’s all just words. If you want to actually make a change, you need to act on those ideas, to make them _real_. You need to fight.” He gestured towards the ponce to end all ponces. “And may I present Draco Malfoy, aka the perfect target? From what you’ve said, that idiot has tormented you—and everyone else, as far as I can tell—since the day he arrived here. He’s the perfect example of everything we talked about. He’s tried day after day to convince you that you are less than him, tried to grind you under his heel. And you know that he isn’t going to stop on his own. Year after year, for as long as you’re both at Hogwarts, he’s going to continue treating you like garbage, and as long as you tolerate that treatment from him, you’ll be tolerating it from everyone. So I guess the real question is whether you want to sit quietly and allow him and everyone else to walk all over you, or whether you want to finally put a stop to this, once and for all, even if it means getting your fists a bit bloody?”

  


Neville blinked at him. “Wow … you really like talking, don’t you?”

  


He narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Okay, now I’m about to hit you for a whole ‘nother reason,” he threatened, only partly kidding.

  


Neville sighed. “I know, I know. I’m just … I’m nervous about going through with this.”

  


“I understand,” he replied. “I would be surprised if you weren’t. In the end, though, you simply have to decide whether you want to control your fear … or allow it to control you.”

  


Neville looked at him in indecision, but only for a moment. Glancing back at the Slytherin trio, who were currently laughing and tormenting some other student, Neville’s face tightened and his eyes lost their glaze of uncertainty. With a firm nod, he strode towards Blondie and the Trolls, his expression resolute and unyielding.

  


“They grow up so fast,” he sniffled as he watched.

  


“Whatcha’ doin’?” a voice suddenly sounded in his ear, making him jump, a fact that was apparently rather amusing to Daphne and Blaise, though not nearly as much as it was to the beaming and giggling Tracey standing right on top of him.

  


“Oh, you know, starting a fight, wreaking a bit of havoc … the usual,” he explained.

  


“Between Malfoy and … Longbottom?” Daphne observed in befuddlement as she watched Neville reach the terrible threesome and start saying something to everyone’s favorite daddy’s boy.

  


“Oh, this should go good,” Blaise sardonically predicted, watching the encounter with interest.

  


“What exactly are you expecting to happen here?” Daphne asked curiously as they watched Malfoy and his goons start laughing at something the former had said, which it would be fair to assume was something derogatory. However, while Neville still seemed extremely nervous and uncomfortable, to his credit, he held his ground and continued speaking, and was hopefully keeping to the lines they had worked up together, too.

  


“Well, violence would be a good start,” he answered with a grin, earning an unimpressed look. “Fine, we’re hoping to get Malfoy to challenge Neville to a duel so he can kick the crap out of the ponce using some stuff I taught him. It should be good for him,” he explained more thoroughly. “Uh, for Neville, that is. Not for Malfoy.”

  


“You’re trying to orchestrate a wizard’s duel between the last scions of two of our oldest pureblood houses?” Daphne asked in a fair amount of confusion and alarm.

  


“Do what now?” Tracey asked, glancing back and forth between them both.

  


“No, I’m just trying to help one kid get over his inadequacy issues and learn to stand up for himself by whaling on his bully,” he replied.

  


“And you have absolutely no idea how this can affect their families, which are not far removed from royal bloodlines in our culture, do you,” Daphne didn’t really ask.

  


“Why would it?” he asked in puzzlement. “Their families aren’t fighting, Draco and Neville are.”

  


“Yes, who are the heirs and future lords of their families,” she explained in exasperation.

  


“You’re not saying they can lose their family’s titles and money and junk to the other just because of some stupid schoolyard fight, are you?” he asked, not really sure what to expect from these people anymore.

  


“Of course not,” Daphne replied. “They’re still minors. Something like that could only happen if they were legal adults, and even then, the matriarch or patriarch of their families would likely need to be involved. But even still, what they do reflects on their families. If one fights another, that signals that their families are in conflict, and if one loses a fight like this, his entire family loses face and could potentially demand restitution from the other, if they feel the incident was unwarranted and the insult grave enough.”

  


He simply blinked at the blonde. “You guys are weird,” he declared, shaking his head and heading towards his protege and his hopefully soon-to-be victim.

  


“I … I can’t Blaise,” Daphne whined. “I swear, this idiot’s going to end up turning our entire world inside out, and when someone points it out to him, he’s just going to say, ‘… huh …’.”

  


“That’s alright,” Blaise comforted, wrapping her arm around the girl. “Tell mamma all about it.”

  


“Ah, crap,” they heard him curse upon spotting Snape stalking towards the Great Hall, and the quartet of boys currently standing between him and it. “Hey, quick question,” he said quickly, turning back towards the girls, and Daphne in particular. “Those weird-ass rules you guys have for all this junk … I don’t suppose one of them says something like, I don’t know, teachers are not allowed to stop someone from challenging another to a duel, does it?”

  


“Of course not,” Daphne answered, causing him to curse under his breath once again. “I mean, once the challenge has been laid out, they’re not allowed to interfere, but–”

  


“Perfect!” He started running towards the hopefully brewing fight.

  


“Wait, what are you doing?” Daphne called after him.

  


“Stall him!” he yelled back, pointing at the approaching head of their house.

  


“What? ‘Stall him’?” Daphne asked, flustered. “How are we supposed to–”

  


“On it!” Tracey happily interrupted, scampering towards Snape.

  


“… We’re going to get expelled today, aren’t we?” Blaise asked as they watched the oncoming collision.

  


“Very likely, Blaise,” Daphne tiredly replied.

  


* * *

  


“Would you get a load of this guy?” Malfoy mocked Neville to his bodyguards, who both gave a totally sincere and in no way sycophantic laugh. “You hear the stuff he’s saying? Looks like Madam Pomfrey managed to grow you a spine after all, Longbottom. I guess magic really can do anything.”

  


“Well, hello again, everybody,” the black-haired newcomer happily greeted them all, earning rather displeased looks from Malfoy and Company, and a surprised look from Neville.

  


_Sorry, man. With Snape on the way, we need to move up the timetable_ , he mentally apologized to the boy, since they planned for Neville to do this part by himself.

  


Though he also suspected Neville wasn’t exactly brokenhearted by his assistance, if the boy’s grateful expression meant anything.

  


“Ugh. You again,” the ponce groaned. “Can’t you tell where you aren’t wanted?”

  


He shrugged. “You know, I’d ask you the same thing, but the fact that you’re ever even in the same room as another human being says that you can’t.”

  


Some of their crowd of onlookers laughed at his comment, which didn’t exactly do wonders for Malfoy’s complexion, which was now a mottled red. However, he didn’t let Malfoy interject, knowing they likely didn’t have much time.

  


“But as for Neville here,” he clapped his arm around the pudgy boy’s shoulder, “well, I think it’s clear to everyone why you’re so desperate to make fun of him.”

  


“Oh? And why’s that?” Malfoy asked with a sneer.

  


“Well, because you’re afraid of him, of course,” he answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  


Dead silence reigned in the circle, eventually broken by Malfoy’s hysterical laughter.

  


“Me?! Afraid of _him_?!” he managed to get out, tears of laughter sliding down his cheeks.

  


Some of the mutters in the circle of onlookers seemed to express the same sentiment.

  


“Of course you are. I mean, we both know Neville could kick your ass any day of the week,” he casually explained.

  


“He can?” Neville whispered in his ear, instinctively reverting back to his nervous, cringing self.

  


He simply tightened his grip supportively on the boy’s shoulder in response.

  


“You’re dreaming! I could wipe the floor with Longbottom in a duel with one hand tied behind my back!” Malfoy boasted, to cheers of support from his lackeys, as well as a few members of the crowd.

  


From the corner of his eye, he spotted Snape approaching, the wildly gesturing form of Tracey unable to keep him back much longer.

  


_Now or never_ , he thought to himself.

  


“Yeah, yeah, Malfoy,” he told the boy as patronizingly as possible. “You think you could take Neville in a duel? Well, if you say so.”

  


_There he goes_ , he thought happily as he watched the boy’s temper take hold of him, right on schedule.

  


“Fine!” he snapped, his crimson face matching Neville’s Gryffindor tie. “I’ll prove it!” Malfoy turned to Neville for the first time in several minutes. “You’d better thank your new friend for screwing you over, _Longbottom_ , because I’m challenging you to a duel! And everyone will see just how–”

  


“I accept,” Neville spoke up, quite clearly.

  


Malfoy really seemed taken aback by the response, as did most of the wildly muttering circle of students. However, Malfoy quickly recovered. “Oh, you accept, do you?” he laughed, smirking broadly. “Well, that’s just great. Now I get to kick your arse, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.” He gave a wickedly gleeful laugh. “Tonight, trophy roo–”

  


“Um, excuse me,” a certain green-eyed monkey wrench interjected. “But I believe the standard practice with duels is that one party issues the challenge, and the other decides the time, place, and rules. Correct?”

  


Malfoy seemed to deflate a bit at that, but his smirk was soon back in full force. “Fine. Longbottom wants to pick when and where he gets his arse handed to him? He can. I don’t have a problem with that.” He folded his arms and looked at Longbottom in amused expectation.

  


Despite how they’d been talking about Neville, most everyone had actually been looking at either Malfoy or their resident green-eyed mischief-maker the whole time. But now, for the first time in several minutes, Neville was actually the focus of everyone’s attention. To his credit, though, he didn’t cringe, or whine, or try to scurry away. Instead, he simply took a deep breath, and carried on with the plan.

  


“Here,” he said clearly, causing Malfoy’s pale eyebrows to raise halfway to his hairline. “Now,” he continued, causing mass waves of excited mutters to sweep through their crowd. But it was his next response that truly shocked most everyone there.

  


“No wands.”

  


Malfoy took a moment to respond. “No wands?” he finally sputtered. “What do you mean, ‘no wands’?” What kind of wizard’s duel doesn’t use wands?”

  


“Actually, I don’t think you ever specified that you were challenging Neville to a _wizard’s_ duel,” their completely unbiased mediator happily pointed out. “And as the challenged party, Neville has the right to decide on the weapons, no matter what kind of duel it is.”

  


Malfoy clearly struggled to find a way to argue against this, but couldn’t. However, something suddenly seemed to occur to him, and his uncertain look was once again replaced with smug confidence. “Fine. You want us to brawl like muggles? I don’t have a problem with that. It makes sense, even. A squib like yourself couldn’t possibly hope to stand a chance in a _proper_ wizard’s duel, so I guess it’s fair to give you a handicap.” Malfoy’s smirk deepened. “But, like with any proper duel, I still get to choose a second, of course.” He turned and appraised his hulking, muscle-bound shadows. “And I think I’ll choose Goyle for mine.” The ogre in question cracked his knuckles threateningly, his face showing nothing but dumb, simple pleasure as he stared down at the comparatively tiny Neville Longbottom.

  


“Fine,” Neville agreed simply. “Then mine’s Harry.”

  


As if synchronized, Malfoy’s and Goyle’s faces fell dramatically, and they turned decidedly less confident gazes on the pleasantly waving Harry Potter.

  


A nervous-looking Goyle began massaging his right hand in pained remembrance as Malfoy suddenly looked paler than ever.

  


“… –telling you, I bet a ton of students would go to that, Professor! I know I would!” Tracey’s voice cut through the crowd’s excited murmur as she and Snape finally arrived.

  


“I don’t care, Davis!” Snape barked, clearly at the end of his rope. “I am not holding ‘an extracurricular module on skulking, lurking, sneering, cape-swishing, and the fundamentals of flouncing’!”

  


“How about just a private tutoring session, then?” Tracey begged, looking so earnest that he honestly couldn’t tell whether she was simply trying to keep stalling Snape like he asked, or if she was actually serious.

  


It didn’t make much difference either way, though.

  


“No means no, Davis!” her head of house snapped in exasperation. “Though if you are truly desperate for work, I’m sure a few sessions of detention would …” Snape trailed off as he spotted an ashen-looking Malfoy standing across from Neville and–

  


“ _Potter_ ,” Snape growled, practically on pure reflex.

  


“ _Professor_ ,” he responded, perfectly mimicking the tone of the “adult.”

  


“And what might you be doing here, hmm?” Snape asked in his oily voice, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Disturbing your classmates? Creating illegal gatherings in the hall? Verbally assaulting Mr. Malfoy, perhaps?”

  


“Arbitrating a duel, actually,” he answered candidly.

  


Even in the crowd, he could faintly hear Daphne mutter “ _Oh, for Merlin’s sake!_ ” at his blunt confession.

  


Snape soon regained his mental balance, however, and his look of surprise was replaced with triumph. “Is that so? Well, it seems a detention is in order, then. After all, fighting is strictly forbidden at Hogwarts.” His lips curled up in a sneer. “Even for celebrities.”

  


“Oh, _I’m_ not duelling,” he corrected Snape, gesturing at the two boys next to him. “Neville and Sir Ponce-a-lot are.”

  


Snape’s dark eyebrows lifted in surprise at that. After glancing at Malfoy and Neville, however, a condescending smirk spread across his face. “Well … _thrilling_ though I’m sure that would be …,” he paused as a mocking chuckle escaped his throat, making it perfectly clear what he thought of any duel involving Neville, “I’m afraid I must cancel this, um … ‘ _duel_ ’.” His smile seemed wider than ever as he stared down at Neville contemptuously.

  


Neville’s response was not what Snape expected, though. Rather than cringe and scurry away as he had in the past at even a sideways glance from the potion’s master, his back straightened and a furious light filled his eyes as he glared openly back at Snape.

  


_Atta’ boy_ , he mentally cheered as he watched Snape’s jaw drop slightly in shock at Neville’s behavior. Even better, Neville didn’t stop there.

  


“Apologies, professor,” Neville muttered through furiously clenched teeth, “but an official challenge to a duel has been levied by Draco of House Malfoy, and I have accepted. Which means there is nothing you can do to stop this. With all due respect.”

  


That last part was clearly tacked on as an afterthought.

  


Snape’s eyes widened in astonishment at both the boy’s newfound spine and his words. Looking to Malfoy, he received more than just confirmation.

  


“He wants us to duel without wands!” Malfoy complained. “That can’t be allowed, can it? I mean, what kind of wizard’s duel doesn’t use wands?”

  


“You issued the challenge,” their green-eyed mediator spoke up before Snape could. “Neville decided the terms. That’s how it goes. If Neville had challenged you, _you_ would be deciding the terms.”

  


Snape’s face looked like he was sucking on a lemon. “I’m afraid,” he began slowly through clenched teeth, “that Potter is correct.” It sounded physically painful for him to utter those words. “If you were _foolish_ enough to challenge Longbottom to a duel,” he paused to glare venomously at Malfoy, “then he may decide the terms.” His darkly glittering eyes fell on Neville. “And if he wants you to brawl like uncivilized muggles, then brawl you shall. Disgraceful though such terms are to the name of wizard.”

  


To his credit, Neville didn’t rise to the professor’s bait. “So what say you, Malfoy?” Neville asked the slightly shorter and much skinnier boy. “Are you going to fight, or run?”

  


Malfoy’s eyes flared as he stared furiously back at Neville. “I’ll fight,” he spat. “And I’ll grind your fat face into the ground, you worthless squib.”

  


This news was received with much excitement by their crowd of onlookers.

  


“Fight! Fight! Fight!” several students began chanting as Malfoy and Neville began stripping off their outer robes and handed their wands to Snape and Harry, respectively.

  


“Kick his arse, Neville!” many other students who would never have even deigned to speak to Neville on any other day cheered, evidence of both just how skilled Malfoy was at making friends and how fickle a crowd could be.

  


“Oh, Merlin … what have I done?,” he faintly heard Neville mutter as the rush of the moment faded and the reality of what was happening started to sink in.

  


“Place your bets! Place your bets here!” the red-haired Weasley twins cried as they circled through the crows exchanging slips of paper for fistfuls of coins. “Who will win, the sneaky little snake, or the brave and bold lion? Place your bets!”

  


He was starting to suspect some bias on their part, oddly enough.

  


“You really are allergic to subtlety, aren’t you?” Daphne complained in exasperation as his friends finally rejoined him on the edge of the crowd, which was now backing up to leave room for the imminent fight between the angry-looking Malfoy and the increasingly pale Neville. “And look, now the headmaster is here. This just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”

  


Sure enough, the bearded Professor Fabulous, today sporting stunning baby-blue robes encircled by moving images of birds, had emerged from the Great Hall and was conversing with Snape. And given they way their eyes fell on the black-haired instigator of this little incident, it was clear who they considered responsible.

  


_Sheesh. I get blamed for everything around here_ , he thought with amusement.

  


“Oh, would you just relax and enjoy the show, Daph?” Blaise cajoled her. “And spot me a few galleons while you’re at it. I think I left my money pouch in my room,” she added as she rummaged about in her pockets for money as the Bookie Twins approached.

  


“Sorry, Blaise. I need it for my own bet,” Daphne answered smugly as she strode up to place her wager.

  


“Aw, dammit!” Blaise complained, turning her pockets inside out to reveal nothing but coinless lint, which was generally not considered a valuable commodity.

  


“Ooh, what’s this? A Slytherin wagering on a Gryffindor to win?” one of the twins exclaimed dramatically upon taking Daphne’s bet. “For shame! Where is your sense of house loyalty?”

  


“Longbottom outweighs Malfoy by at least four stone,” Daphne said dryly upon taking her slip of paper. “My loyalty is to common sense.”

  


“Common sense?” the other twin repeated in feigned confusion. “Well that doesn’t sound very witchy at all! Are you sure you’re in the right school?”

  


“Don’t worry, Fred. She’s only a first year. She still has time to learn the _proper_ manner of magical thinking,” twin one assured him.

  


“Oh, quite right, Fred,” twin two agreed. “Ah, youth.” He tousled a squawking Daphne’s hair before moving on through the crowd.

  


“Ooh, they gonna get it,” Tracey predicted as they watched Daphne glare murderously after their retreating backs, her hair in disarray.

  


“You can say that again. You can practically _see_ their names going on ‘the list’,” Blaise agreed as Daphne made her way back through the crowd, quietly fuming and smoothing her hair.

  


They didn’t get any farther than that before things started shaping up in the circle, though.

  


“Alright, Longbottom,” Malfoy announced, bereft of robes and tie as he rolled his shoulders loose. “I hope you’re ready, because I’m finally going to give you the beating you deserve!”

  


In sharp contrast to his boasting, Neville didn’t say a word. He simply shot a slightly nervous look at his boxing instructor, who gave him an encouraging nod. Swallowing, Neville nodded back. Turning back to Malfoy, he lifted his fists in the defensive stance he had been taught, resolve somewhat filling his nervous face.

  


Snape and Dumbledore joined the fringes of the crowd while Malfoy and Neville began circling each other, both hesitant to throw the first punch. For Malfoy, this seemed to be discomfort at fighting physically—or really just doing any of his fighting himself, given that he usually contracted this out to his lackeys. For Neville, though, this was due to a war going on inside him. You could see it in his face. He was torn between the meek, cringing personality that had been his default for so many years, and the desire to stand up for himself and embrace his anger like they had talked about. Every time his face started showing confidence, it was immediately undercut by anxiety and uncertainty. His fists clenched and unclenched as he fought with himself.

  


Leaving himself completely open to Malfoy’s punch.

  


The crowd jeered and groaned as Neville staggered back, clasping a hand to his broken nose as blood gushed down his face.

  


“Come on, Neville,” he muttered as he watched the boy stare at his blood-stained hand as if in shock that this was really happening. “Shake it off. Get angry.”

  


“Did that feel good, little squib?” Malfoy taunted, apparently gaining some confidence from the successful hit, even as he shook his hand in pain.

  


“Get ‘im, Malfoy!” one of his goons yelled from the crowd, proving that they actually were capable of speech, much to a certain black-haired boy’s surprise.

  


Malfoy apparently took his words to heart as he lashed out at Neville once again … and then a few times more. Each punch was met with a groan from the crowd as his fist crashed into Neville’s face with a series of wet smacks from the blood. All the while, Neville simply staggered back, a dazed expression on his face as he stared at Malfoy without even trying to defend himself.

  


_Shit. He’s in shock_ , he interpreted with a groan.

  


“You know … I must say,” Malfoy panted, shaking his hand and grinning at the still non-responsive Neville, “it actually feels pretty damn good to get my hands dirty and put a little shit like you in your place.”

  


_Oh, hell no!_

  


“Is that it, Neville?!” he yelled over the crowd. “Is that what you’re made of?! Malfoy’s scum! He’s a cringing little coward who struts around like he’s ten feet tall, but runs whenever anyone looks at him sideways!” Malfoy, and most of the students in the crowd, stared at him in shock at his words, but he simply kept going. “Are you really going to just lie down and let someone like that beat you?! Do you really think so little of yourself?! He’s nothing! So if you let him win, then what does that say about you?!”

  


Dead silence reigned throughout the hallway answered his shouts as everyone stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. But he didn’t care. His eyes were on Neville … and Neville was looking back.

  


_Come on,_ he silently begged. _Get angry_.

  


Neville’s eyes slowly narrowed, and his fists clenched.

  


A furious, nearly purple Malfoy opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say died as Neville snapped his gaze to him and he saw the look in the “little squib’s” eyes.

  


The room echoed with a resounding crack as Malfoy’s nose practically exploded under Neville’s fist. Malfoy howled as he clutched his face, blood pouring from between his fingers as the skin around his eyes already started darkening into matching black eyes from his thoroughly broken nose.

  


The twisted snarl etched onto Neville’s face said this was just the beginning, though.

  


As Malfoy threw blind, enraged swings at his opponent, Neville stepped forward, crudely blocking the blows with his forearms as he stepped inside Malfoy’s reach and slugged him in the face once again.

  


Their positions were now completely reversed, as the furiously yelling Neville was now the one laying blow after blow on the stunned, silently staggering Malfoy. There was none of the grace and precision imparted on Neville in their practice earlier. Now, there was only raw, unflinching fury as his fists fell again and again on Malfoy’s cringing form.

  


The crowd of students loved it, cheering with the kind of vicious satisfaction only children can know as the boy they all hated so much was savagely beaten by a boy they would have spit on any other day, but now hailed as a hero.

  


As the onlookers jeered and hollered, Malfoy tried fighting back, but to no avail. He was practically blind from the tears his broken nose had forced into his eyes, and even when he landed a punch, Neville simply shrugged them off like water breaking on a rock, too furious and swept up in the moment to even notice.

  


Malfoy’s backward staggering finally came to a halt as he tripped over his own feet and was sent sprawling across the cold stone floor. But Neville wasn’t done. Still snarling, the enraged boy straddled his downed opponent, and just kept on swinging.

  


The crowd whooped and cheered as he did, reveling with every blow … at first. But Neville didn’t stop, and the room soon fell into a deep, disturbed silence, except for the dull, wet smacks of Neville’s fists against Malfoy’s face, and the sad, small whimpering of the boy beneath him.

  


“ _Merlin_ ,” Daphne breathed as they watched the display of pure merciless savagery in the formerly gentle boy.

  


_Oh no_ , he thought. Shoving people aside, he rushed towards them.

  


“Neville! _Neville!_ ” he yelled as he grabbed the snarling boy mid-swing and bodily pulled him off the sobbing, bleeding Malfoy. “It’s over! He’s down!”

  


Neville didn’t seem to hear him. Yelling mindlessly, he struggled and fought tooth and nail to pull himself free and throw himself back at Malfoy.

  


“ _Neville!_ ” he yelled again, shaking him.

  


With that, the world finally seemed to come back to the boy, and his thrashing ceased. Cautiously, he let Neville go and stepped back, watching him carefully and ready to grab him again if necessary.

  


It wasn’t.

  


Neville simply stood there, staring down at the beaten and bloody Malfoy lying piteously on the ground. Slowly, he turned from the boy and looked at his own hands. They were stained a deep crimson, Malfoy’s blood mixing with his own from his torn knuckles.

  


Turning, he half stumbled, half ran away, the crowd of students hastily parting to let him through as everyone started muttering and whispering about what they just witnessed, glancing uncomfortably at Neville’s retreating form.

  


Somehow, though, the boy who started all this found his gaze drawn to something else. Turning, he looked over the head of the whispering students to see Professor Dumbledore staring after Neville, an unreadable look on his face. Lowering his gaze, the towering professor looked closely at all the disturbed children whispering to each other as they glanced at Neville, the moaning Malfoy, or even Harry himself. Dumbledore finally turned to Harry, and his stony expression broke into a disturbing smile.

  


He shivered as he met the man’s gaze. Despite how bright those blue eyes were, in that moment, they seemed very dark, and very, very cold.

  


He didn’t have time to deal with that, though. Turning, he darted after Neville, not noticing how the gathered students pulled back from him just as they did for Neville, or how Dumbledore’s smile deepened upon spotting this. His focus was on finding Neville, and on the tiny drops of blood scattered down the hallway that were leading him to the boy. After following the trail for a bit, he drew up short upon reaching a corner in the hallway, as he heard Neville’s faint sobbing coming from just the other side.

  


“Neville?” he gently called out.

  


“… yeah,” Neville whispered back hoarsely.

  


Turning, he leaned back against the wall and dropped to a crouch. “You okay?”

  


“… no,” the boy answered honestly. While he couldn’t see Neville, he knew the boy was looking at his blood-stained hands. “But I will be … I think.”

  


“Do you want to talk abou–”

  


“No,” Neville cut him off. “I don’t want to talk. I just … I’m sorry, but I just want to be alone right now.”

  


With a faint rustle of cloth against stone, Neville stood up and began walking away.

  


He didn’t follow.

  


“Did I do the right thing?” he quietly asked. “I thought I was helping him. Did I make things worse?”

  


Daphne stepped up beside him. “I don’t know, Harry,” she answered honestly.

  


He nodded, not really expecting any other answer. “Did someone finally scrape Malfoy off the floor?”

  


“One of his goons did, yeah,” Blaise answered. “Snape made sure they got him off to the hospital wing. He didn’t look _too_ bad. Nothing Madam Pomfrey can’t fix, anyway. His pride, though … I suspect that’s beyond anyone’s power to fix now.”

  


“Stomped by the ‘filthy little squib’,” Tracey remarked, “and left crying and bloody on the floor in front of everyone and their brother? Yeah, there’s no coming back from that.”

  


“Well, at least some good came from all this,” he commented, feeling marginally better.

  


“I’ll say,” Daphne agreed, hefting her new bulging money pouch with a smile. “But I hope you’re done playing with Longbottom for a bit, because we really need to work on my plans for getting past a certain gauntlet to retrieve a certain special rock.”

  


He shot her a bemused look. “I thought this whole thing was my plan?”

  


“Oh, it was, but I’ve decided I would be more comfortable if it was my plan now,” Daphne told him with a gentle pat on the cheek.

  


“But … but …,” he tried rebutting.

  


“Don’t bother. She does that,” Blaise told him. “It’s easier to just go along with it. Trust me, I know.”

  


Tracey nodded in fervent agreement.

  


“Quite right,” Daphne agreed unabashedly, heading down the hall and leaving everyone else to catch up and follow. “Now, the first thing we should do …”

  


He shook his head and smiled as he watched the girl just assume command of their whole enterprise. As she kept talking, Blaise began miming her behind her back, while Tracey linked her arm with his and began gazing distractedly at virtually everything but the talking blonde, just as she had been ever since Daphne mentioned the word “plan.” He chuckled at the sight.

  


“… so what do you think?” Daphne finally finished, looking at him expectantly.

  


He smiled more deeply. “I think I’m really glad you three are my friends,” he said fondly.

  


Daphne blinked and stared at him in surprised confusion, while Blaise froze with her mouth open mid-mimic to do the same. Even Tracey paused in her distracted gazing to look at him.

  


“I’m … glad you’re my friend too,” Daphne admitted with a faint blush.

  


“Same here,” Blaise agreed, giving him a warm, genuine smile that was a far cry from her usual sardonic, teasing grins. “You big softy.”

  


Though she apparently couldn’t keep her wry grin off her face for long.

  


“I’m happy you’re my friend too,” Tracey said with a bright smile. She squeezed his arm more tightly and rested her head against his shoulder as they all continued walking in comfortable silence.

  


“… You weren’t listening to a word I said, were you?” Daphne finally realized.

  


“Not really.”


End file.
